


Fidelity

by SurelyMeretricious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Reichenbach, Secret Relationship, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurelyMeretricious/pseuds/SurelyMeretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John receive a call that throws their lives into a black hole they may not be able to crawl out of.</p><p>(NOTE: This fic updates weekly usually, but is on a brief hiatus due to health issues and life complications. I hope to have the wheel turning again soon, and I appreciate your patience.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Call

**Author's Note:**

> I started this over a year again, and the only way to make myself finish the ending is to start posting.  
> This is a Mary of my own invention, created before Series 3 aired.  
> Completely alternate history/story.  
> This may go to places I don't like, just as a warning to readers. If you are looking for a happy ending, you may not get one.

    The lithe form of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, hovered over that of his friend and flatmate, Doctor John Watson, swaying minutely. John’s eyes were turned towards the ceiling, hazy and rolling in and out of focus, his breath shallow and quick. Sherlock’s face leaned in towards the crook of John’s neck, completely immersed in the experiment he was urgently conducting, his brow furrowed, lips parted slightly.

    It took all of their concentration to keep from coming too soon. John’s hands were cupping Sherlock’s buttocks, giving him some control and leverage, though Sherlock was the one truly controlling the situation. Sherlock closed his eyes as he rocked on the outermost point of John’s glans- just until the threat of releasing him was imminent- before barely enveloping him again. His pale arms flexed around John’s shoulders, elbows bent, his long fingers carded through the short greying hairs at the sides and back of John’s head as his muscles clenched around his lover’s body. Sherlock’s mouth fell open in a quiet moan as he watched John lick his lips and buck his hips, dying to thrust himself fully into Sherlock.

    “Please,” John murmured to Sherlock, whose pastel-green eyes met his own darkly.

    Without a word Sherlock acquiesced, sitting back fully on John. All the breath triumphantly left the soldier’s lungs. A few more deep, quick thrusts and they were both hurtled over the edge of a long-overdue orgasm.

    Sherlock’s body fell limply against John’s chest and they clung to each other, the only sound in the room their shallow and slowing pants. After several minutes, Sherlock shifted off of John, who grimaced at the sensitivity of loosening from within Sherlock. With a contented sigh, Sherlock fell against John’s side, half on top of him, their legs entwining. Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck as he kissed the skin there, breathing him in.

    “I’d say that went even more successfully than anticipated. I shall have to add that one to the chart.” Sherlock’s mind, in the midst of post-coital bliss, was already hard at work, considering possibilities for their next “encounter”, as he sometimes referred to their love-making.

    John only smiled, shagged-out, and focused on the warm body next to his, lost in the moment. Sherlock moved as if to leave him and he protested with a sharp sound, but Sherlock only moved enough to stretch his arms and pull their duvet over their shoulders before settling back in.

    Then Sherlock was asleep almost instantly, leaving John alone with his thoughts for precious moments before he, too, fell into slumber.

    Hours later, but still miles before the dawn, John was startled awake by the clang of Sherlock’s mobile ringing on the bedside table. John rubbed his eyes awkwardly, one arm trapped beneath the man breathing warmly against his neck, and inhaled sharply through his nose as adrenaline woke him fully. He lay in the darkness, waiting for Sherlock to join him in the land of the living and make the noise stop, but Sherlock only grumbled rudely and rolled away from John, pushing the army doctor towards the disturbance. With a sigh, John said, “Sherlock, that’s your mobile. Answer it, it could be important.”

    Sherlock grumbled his dissent again and pulled the covers tighter over himself, tucking his chin into his chest. John rolled his eyes and reached for the phone, swearing under his breath. The display said it was from a blocked number, so John thrust it towards Sherlock, attempting once more for his attention on the obviously pressing matter. Sherlock did his best to ignore him, so John was left with no choice but to end their suffering himself by answering the phone.

    “Mycroft, you do realise what time it is, right? What’s so bloody important?” John sat up as Mycroft demanded stiffly that John pass the phone over to his brother. Looking over at the already sleeping man, John told him that Sherlock was unavailable but he would be more than happy to take a message, if only to get back to sleep himself. On the other end of the line, Mycroft took a deep breath before issuing his direct and curt message and ringing off, leaving John holding a dead line in shocked silence.

    After a long pause, he absently set the phone back on the nightstand, missing the edge and leaving the mobile to drop to the floor with a loud clatter. The noise disturbed Sherlock and he grimaced angrily in his sleep.

    With a strong arm, John leaned over and shook Sherlock roughly awake. “What, John? What?” he shouted.

    When John didn’t answer him, Sherlock rolled over to face him, a storm clouding over his features. Before he could berate him, John’s expression made him pause. Concern replaced anger and he sat up to reach towards John, who stared past him, face slack and in shock.

    “John?” Sherlock asked in a small voice.

    A shudder rippled through John and he snapped to attention, his focus now completely on Sherlock.

    “Mycroft, Sherlock… He called because…” John reached out as he worked to find the words, cursing Mycroft for leaving him the task of delivering such a message.

    John licked his lips and his nervousness sent icy chills running through Sherlock as he could only wait, his stomach coiling sickly with anticipation, knowing John well enough to know that whatever it was he had to say, it was truly terrible.

    Sherlock was caught off guard as John pulled him close gently and whispered, “It’s your father, Sherlock. He’s dead.”


	2. A is for Attachment; A is for Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after receiving the devastating news, John and Sherlock attempt to discern their next steps.

   Neither John nor Sherlock slept after receiving the call from Mycroft that Mr. Holmes had passed.  John held Sherlock tightly, swaying gently, no words coming to mind.  What could he say?  He knew nothing about Sherlock’s father or their relationship.  He knew Sherlock claimed not to be sentimental, but his father had died.  So John held on to him, doing all he could.  For Sherlock’s part, he offered up no clarity as to his emotional state.  He merely let John hold him while he muddled through chaos in his brain.  

   Sherlock had never been close to his father.  In fact, whenever his thoughts turned towards the man, he felt an unfailing but unexplainable sense of revulsion and impassivity.  

   Sherlock drowned in his thoughts, barely feeling John’s comforts until the rising sun illuminated the room and alerted him of the passing of time.  Carefully, Sherlock drew away from John’s entanglements, regretting the movement immediately.  He didn’t realise how much John’s touch had been sustaining him until he lost it.  John let him go when he felt him tugging away, albeit reluctantly.  

   John searched Sherlock’s face desperately for signs of emotional distress.  Sherlock looked back at him, betraying nothing but eyes rimmed slightly red and puffy from lack of sleep, a dilemma that John shared.  John moved his mouth to speak, but closed it again when the effort proved fruitless.  Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath and fought off the strong impulse to climb onto John’s lap and curl into a ball, hidden and safe from the real world in John’s arms.  

   Reaching out a hand, John brushed loose curls from Sherlock’s forehead with heartbreaking tenderness and croaked in a voice thick with disuse and unspoken words, “I’ll go with you.  If you want to go, that is.  I won’t let you face this alone.  Not without me.”

   Sherlock bit back the instinctual scoff of disdain he would have given anyone other than his John at the mere notion of the great and aloof Sherlock Holmes needing anyone.  Loathe as he was to admit it, Sherlock knew that he did need John.  Better than needing John, he wanted him.  He wanted him around all the time, even at his weakest points.

   John hesitated in Sherlock’s silence, wishing he could swallow his hasty words.  Though he meant them, he knew Sherlock didn’t want to have to hear them.  John knew that Sherlock was above emotional attachments, excluding himself.  

   Thinking quickly, he settled on a reason that a Holmes might find acceptable: duty.

   Trying again, he muttered, “I mean, you and Mycroft will probably have affairs to settle, and I want to be there to help in any way possible.”

   Finding this easier to respond to, far preferable to searching his mind and laying his possible need for John bare, Sherlock concurred that there would be much to do and John’s assistance would indeed be most helpful and welcome.

   After a moment’s hesitation, John pecked his lips to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and rose to take a shower, already planning out the rest of their day.

   Minutes later, Sherlock began to speak to John, to thank him, only to realise that he had long ago left the room.  A shiver passed through Sherlock’s body as he considered the alarming volume of conversations he had with a spectre of John.  He listened to John humming quietly in the next room as he toweled himself off before deciding to take the shower over from him.

   Showering was good.  It offered Sherlock almost an hour of quiet as he focused on the slap of the water against ceramic and the rush of soapy water as it swirled in a constant path down the drain.  When Sherlock decided to finally turn off the distraction, the water was freezing and his lips had turned a faint blue.  Shaking violently, Sherlock pushed an arm to leave the meager warmth of his torso and select the towel from the rack that John hadn’t dampened.  After shivering almost a full minute, he reached up to take that as well.

   John walked back into their bathroom to check on him.  Worry creased his brow as he stared at Sherlock, who stood dripping still with both large towels wrapped snug around his shoulders and waist while he surveyed his and John’s toothbrushes and other sink-related paraphernalia like he had never seen more foreign objects in all his life.

   “Sherlock?” John ventured, snapping him back to the present.  “What are you doing?”

   Sherlock looked at him dumbly before saying, “It was his heart, wasn’t it?”

   It took John a moment to register what was he being asked.  “Your dad?” he said, stepping closer and leaning absentmindedly against the doorframe.  “I don’t know, Sherlock.  Mycroft didn’t go into detail.”

   “My father always had a weak heart.  And he was horribly old.”

   Sherlock shuffled past John and quickly began to dress himself.  John watched him and massaged his jaw like he had been punched by the acidity of Sherlock’s tone.  He felt so off-centre and on such uneven ground in their unprecedented situation.  It was almost impossible to think of Sherlock Holmes having parents, which made the fact of him having a suddenly deceased parent that much stranger to process.

   Having little else to do, John decided to fill the silence, hoping his voice might distract Sherlock a little.  “So I went to the clinic just now to see Sarah-”

   “Yes, obviously.  You smell of disinfectant and perfume mildly because she hugged you.  They always do get gropey when you tell them something tragic,” Sherlock interrupted indifferently.  

   John swallowed back the comment that Sherlock had done the same thing upon hearing the news of his father’s death in the night, deeming it unnecessary, and continued.  “Yes, she said to give you her condolences.”  Ignoring Sherlock’s smirk, John spoke louder.  “Anyways, I told her I needed time off so I could be with you.”

   “Yes, fine.”  Sherlock sounded put upon, like a teenager scolding his mum for embarrassing him in public.  “I suppose I’ll text Lestrade and tell him I’ll be unavailable for distractions unless they are really in need of my assistance.  I give them less than a week.”

   John laughed before he could stop himself.  Clapping a hand over his mouth, he stepped backwards and turned pink.  “Oh God, Sherlock.  I’m so sorry.  I shouldn’t be laughing at a time like this.”

   Sherlock smiled weakly.  Buttoning down his shirt the rest of the way, he moved across the room and pulled John’s hand gently away from his face.  He leaned down so he was at eye-level and pleaded, “Don’t stop laughing, John.  That would be a tragedy indeed.  Just be yourself, and I’ll be alright.”

   John gave Sherlock’s cold hand a warm squeeze before nodding.  Together, they silently packed for a long stay away from home.  They stepped out of 221B and John waved goodbye to Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock rapidly texted Mycroft.  The car sent by the elder Holmes had already pulled up, so John put their trunks in the boot, glad that they were significantly lighter after he had persuaded Sherlock that his entire set of encyclopedias were not necessary.  They both climbed into the rear seat and Sherlock pocketed his mobile.  John took one last look at Mrs. Hudson before finding Sherlock’s hand on the seat next to his leg.  

   Sherlock settled in, alerting John that it was bound to be a long drive, and closed his eyes to think about anything but their destination.

 

 


	3. B is for Bond; B is for Bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock explore the Holmes' family home.

   John was relieved but nervous as the car pulled down the long drive to the Holmes family manor.  It was a large but surprisingly unassuming house in the country.  Far enough from the small winding road to offer privacy, but not far enough to suggest complete isolation.  There was a large, run-down shed and a smaller home behind the side of the house.  John took in the scenery and tried to picture Sherlock there as a child: climbing the large gnarled willow, running and gulping down fresh air, squatting by the small stream in the distance to watch insects and tadpoles.  

   His small smile faded quickly when he looked over to see Sherlock’s face twisted with obvious discomfort.  

   “Unpleasant memory?” he guessed.  Sherlock didn’t bother answering.

   John stepped out of the car when the driver stopped and breathed deeply, closing his eyes and tilting his face back to feel the sun.  Sherlock begrudgingly got out as well, closing his door with a smart click.  John jumped a little at the sound and suddenly remembered he needed to pull their things from the boot.

   He moved quickly to collect their cases while Sherlock circled around the drive, searching for a signal on his mobile.  Giving up, he clicked his tongue and turned towards John just as the car pulled away.  “It’s no use, John.  I can’t even get one bar.  This is going to be miserable.”

   John cocked his head to the side and drily joked, “Oh, it will be awful having to speak to people like me and Mycroft.”  John stood up straighter and added, “We’re not meant to be on holiday, Sherlock.”

   Sherlock exhaled and stepped onto the wide porch.  Without even glancing around, he reached under a potted plant near the entrance and produced a key.  “Obvious,” he muttered as he unlocked the door and stepped to the side, gesturing for John to go in first.  John stepped into the musty gloom, immediately wanting to be back outside.  Behind him, Sherlock hesitated before passing over the threshold.

   Silently, they both glanced around, soaking in the details.  Sherlock had the disappointment of someone trying to match reality with remembrance and finding that the overlying images no longer lined up.  John had the curious satisfaction of someone finally being let in on a huge secret they hadn’t before realised they wanted to know.  Around them, the entrance seemed to swell at their intrusion.  To Sherlock, it was painfully clear that they were the first to arrive.  Dust clung to every surface like a layer of soft, dirty snow.  Not one of the Holmes family members had lived in or even visited the manor in years.

   John set their cases against the wall distractedly and stepped into what looked like a formal sitting room.  A heavy, intricate rug darkened the floor, contrasting sharply with the crisp whiteness of the sheets draped over the furniture.  John tread silently to closer examine the small figurines sparsely decorating the mantelpiece.  He thought of Sherlock’s skull, his “friend”, back on their mantlepiece at home, and smiled a little to himself.  

   Sherlock followed John’s route across the floor until he was flush against John’s back.  Wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist, Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips against John’s neck, nuzzling into his jawline stubble.  John laid his arms over Sherlock’s, leaning into him.  Sherlock shifted, pressing his mouth to John’s ear and whispering, “I don’t want to be here.”

   Slowly, John spun around in Sherlock’s grip until they were facing one another.  He draped his arms around the back of Sherlock’s neck and said soothingly, “I know, love.  It will just be a few days.  Then we can go home and find you a nice triple homicide to take your mind off of things.”

   “Nobody understands my needs like you do.”

   At this suggestion, John felt inappropriately flirty.  “You got that right,” he said, his voice slipping into his lower register.

   Then they were kissing.  Deep, passionate kisses faded into a soft, gentle exchange of tongues.  Eventually Sherlock pulled away and pressed his forehead against John’s.

   “Come on,” Sherlock said, his voice also lower than usual and sounding as tempting as warm caramel drizzling over brownies fresh from the oven.  “I’ll show you my old room.”

   Curiosity replaced lust and John let Sherlock lead him by the hand through more rooms, a library, and up a flight of stairs.  As they passed door after door down the long hallway, John tried to take in as much as possible.  He only saw a sizable water closet and two guest rooms not littered with variously shaped white sheets.  The rest of the doors were closed.  When they reached the end of the hall, Sherlock led John into the room directly above the library.  

   It was much larger than John expected it to be, for a child’s room.  Sherlock felt self-conscious and moved about the room, tidying little messes he had left several lifetimes ago.  

   John grinned at his endearing efforts and walked around, not wanting to waste a chance at glimpsing into Sherlock’s enigmatic past.  Not wishing to disturb anything, John treated the area like a museum exhibit.  He looked at Sherlock’s old things from every angle and reached out to touch something gingerly with the tip of one finger only when he was certain that he wouldn't be caught.  

   “So this is, um…” Sherlock stuttered, with cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

   “It’s great,” John finished for him, watching with pleasure as his little compliment brought a deeper blush of pride to Sherlock’s face.

   “Yes, well, we’ll stay in a guest room, of course.”

   John followed Sherlock’s eyes over the small bed against the far wall and made a noise of understanding.  Turning to look back at the massive bookshelves behind Sherlock, John gave out a long whistle at the incredible sight.  He stepped back to get a fuller picture.  The shelves were loaded, much like their shelves on Baker Street, with books crammed together.  Some shelves were two layers deep and each shelf had horizontal piles squeezed in however they would fit.

   Teasing, John asked, “Do a bit of reading as a toddler?”

   Sherlock shared a grin with him.  “A bit.”

   Having a plethora of information to mull over, John suggested they check out the rest of the grounds before settling in and Sherlock obliged.  

 

 


	4. C is for Commitment; C is for Chicanery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John stop for dinner. Unexpected feelings arise.

   Hours later, John felt his stomach rumble.  Both he and Sherlock had been too distracted to stop for food all day and the regrettable decision was coming back to bite them.  Sherlock heard John’s body protest at the lack of an energy source and immediately set upon the pantry to rectify the situation.  Relief did not come so easily so John suggested they walk the long drive and back down the road to the pub they had passed on the way in.  Sherlock felt he could have suffered the night without eating, but knew John wouldn’t, so he reluctantly agreed to make the journey.  Without explanation, Sherlock led John to the small shed in the opposite direction of the road.  The outpost had piqued John's interest earlier in their tour, but Sherlock had only shrugged it off.

   John assisted Sherlock in opening the large door and squinted into the darkness.  Dim residual light from the setting sun illuminated a motorbike, which was far from new but looked well cared for and recently used.  Sherlock stepped forward quickly, releasing the kickstand and wheeling it outside to inspect it closer in the better light.  The turning cogs in John’s head settled and he stepped back throwing his hands up defensively.  Eyebrows raised in bewilderment he sputtered, “Oh, hell no, Sherlock.  We are not riding that thing to the pub.”

   Sherlock gave him a look full of scorn and mocking contempt, as if John had said the stupidest thing he had ever heard and he momentarily wanted to forget that he knew him.  Sherlock huffed loudly and rolled his eyes, choosing to go back to his examinations rather than stoop low enough to recognise John had even spoken.

   But John stood his ground firmly, practically shrieking, “Oh for fuck’s- You’ll kill us both, Sherlock.”

   As though he were weary from repeating himself countless times, Sherlock said, “It’s fine, John.  I’m perfectly capable of escorting us both to and from the pub safely.”

   Unbidden, a hazy conjuring of what John pictured to be Sherlock’s deceased father formed behind his eyes and he closed his mouth before bringing up the sore subject of death again.  John felt a bit silly, feeling like he needed to censor himself to spare Sherlock’s possible emotional distress, if he even had any.  Besides, Sherlock was never one to shy away from death.  Quite the opposite was true, as he harbored a not-so-secret fascination with morbidity.  Death was a large part of Sherlock’s bread and butter.  Though John did not welcome the subject of death as readily or as eagerly as his partner, it had been a large part of his life for years as well, a fact especially due to his medical and military background.  

   Wanting to change the subject, John cleared his throat and said, “Just be careful."

   Sherlock nodded vaguely in his direction.

   Volunteering to completely dissipate the too-serious cloud that hovered over them, John added, "I think I’ll have fish and chips.  What about you?”

   Sherlock smirked, already getting on the bike before John had surrendered, knowing his tolerance for reckless behaviour too well.  He knew that John would trust him, would put his life in Sherlock’s hands.  Sherlock bit back a laugh as John pursed his lips nervously.  Seeming to have come to a decision, John chewed his lower lip and slid on to the seat behind Sherlock carefully, wrapping his arms warmly around Sherlock’s torso.  All humour left Sherlock when he felt John press his cheek against the space between his own thin shoulder blades.  Sherlock’s insides twisted in unfamiliar pain at John’s tenderness.  He wasn’t oblivious to John’s internal struggles over the last several hours.  Though he wasn’t clear exactly how he felt about his father ceasing to be, John’s concern and worry about how it might be affecting him threatened to tear Sherlock limb from limb.  It was moments like that that made Sherlock’s love and adoration of John Watson, usually a constant and steady pulse, flare up in a blinding crescendo that staggered him to his very bones.

   Sherlock fought to catch his breath, alarmed that John still managed to evoke such violent reactions in him.  When he felt he was focused again, Sherlock worked to get the motorbike running.  It took several uncomfortable minutes, a few dozen kicks, and a considerable amount of swearing, to get the machine to go from a sickly sputtering clunk to a purring dragon.  With the motorbike rumbling numbingly beneath him, Sherlock turned his head back to shout over the noise, “Hang on tight!  If you fall off you’ll have to walk the rest of the way!”

   John responded by nearly squeezing the life out of Sherlock, who grunted and easily coaxed the bike forward, leaving John to shut his eyes tightly and pray.  Only when the terrain beneath them changed from rough gravel to rough pavement did John risk opening his eyes.  Sherlock accelerated dangerously down the narrow lane as the wind whipped his curls and stung his eyes.  The sensation only irritated him until Sherlock heard the most glorious sound in the world: John laughing.  John’s laughter was musical and turned into an exhilarated whooping.  Too late, Sherlock wished he had gone a little slower, to prolong the experience, because the pub came into sight long before he was ready to end John’s fun.  

   When Sherlock turned off the engine, John stepped back on solid ground with legs shaking slightly.  He moved to stand near the front of the bike and Sherlock took in the sight of his cheeks flushed with adrenaline.  Before he even realised he was moving, Sherlock leaned over and kissed John hungrily.  Excitedly, John responded until Sherlock nearly fell off the bike.  Pulling apart, they laughed.

   “Save room for dessert,” John teased, rolling his tongue between his teeth.

   Sherlock swung his long legs over the bike and set the kickstand.  “Come on,” he said resolutely, taking hold of John’s hand, “Let’s feed you up.”

   John blushed at their inside joke and together they walked into the pub.  The place was sparsely populated by the local colour, as expected.  Every head turned at their entrance, briefly taking them in and assessing them as outsiders before going about their business.  Sherlock pulled John to a private booth near the back corner and quickly sat down.  John joined him, sitting opposite so he could slot his legs between Sherlock’s.  After a few silent minutes taken to examine the simple menu, a small and incredibly ancient woman came to their table with two cups unusually more ice than water, already frosted with condensation.

   Sherlock glanced her over, making mental notes that she was widowed, owned three cats, and wasn’t doing well financially from the state of her clothes.  He opened his mouth to say something when John kicked his ankle, effectively shutting him up.

   “What’ll it be, lads?” she asked in a tone that relayed she couldn’t care less.  Her glance flicked between the two of them behind heavy lids before settling on John as he spoke.

   “Two fish and chips, if you please.”

   John looked at Sherlock’s bored face and acted quickly for the sanity of the other patrons.

   “To take, thanks,” he called out to their server’s back.  She shrugged to indicate she had heard him, but John’s attention was still on Sherlock.

   Raising an eyebrow Sherlock asked, “We just got here and you already want to go back to that awful house?”  John’s face cringed and Sherlock read his uneasiness, taking it to mean John was worried that a scene was about to be caused.

   John wanted to make their outing as brief as possible, but hoped to disguise the true reason from his astute observer.  Knowing that task to be a daunting one, John spun his glass around, widening the wet ring on the table in what he hoped came across as a nonchalant manner.  The silence stretched taught until he finally spoke, “I’m just more exhausted than I thought, and we still have a lot to do before Mycroft gets here in the morning.”

   Sherlock nodded understanding, though he knew that wasn’t the whole reason.  John looked around, examining the simple pub decorations before a football match on the telly over the bar commandeered his attention.  Sherlock was content to watch John watch the sport.  His eyes traced the lines and contours of John’s face- a map he knew even better than that of London.  He watched John’s tongue dart out of his mouth minutely and the bob of his adam’s apple when his team made a mistake, watched his eyes widen and his mouth stretch when they did something right.  Sherlock tilted his head and lazily lingered on the bit of flesh exposed just above John’s collar.  He pressed his leg lightly against John’s and was halfway through mentally unbuttoning the plaid  shirt when he felt the atmosphere shift.  His eyes trailed up John’s body back to his face, only to see that the game no longer held his full attention.  John’s eyes had darted over to the voluptuous blonde they had passed on the way to their table.  

   John cleared his throat, suddenly realising he had been rudely staring at the woman across the pub, and turned his attention back to the match.  His team was losing, embarrassingly so, and he was no longer interested.  He began to wonder if their server was catching their fish by hand in a nearby stream when he felt more than saw Sherlock pull violently away from him.  Before he could ask if anything was wrong, their server materialised out of nowhere with a brown bag full of their food.  John’s stomach grumbled loudly and he wanted to take back his hasty decision to eat at the house, but one look at Sherlock’s soured face made him decide to stick to his original plan.  John stood quickly and pulled enough out of his wallet to cover their meals and set it under his glass, as their server had already disappeared.

   “Sherlock?” John asked, unsure of what else to say.

   Sherlock bristled darkly at the sound of his name but got up.  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

   Then Sherlock took his hand firmly and led him back to the bike.  A shiver passed through John as he convinced himself that Sherlock was having trouble with the sudden death of his father after all.  He was so wrapped up in trying to think of a way to help Sherlock that he completely missed Sherlock glare icily at the blonde John had been admiring earlier as they passed her again.

 

 


	5. D is for Devotion; D is for Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crack appears in the glass.

   There was no laughter on the ride back to the house.  Sherlock had taken his time, partly to think and partly to punish John for a perceived indiscretion.  John took their food inside when they stopped and Sherlock took his time putting the motorbike back where he had found it.

   When he made it inside, John had already set them both up at the cleaned kitchen table.  At first, he had wanted to use the dining room, but it felt too upper-class for fish and chips.  Besides, the kitchen was cozier and more intimate.  More like their home.  John dug into his meal heartily while Sherlock examined his own plate.  After several bites, John paused to catch his breath and noticed that Sherlock had not yet eaten a single morsel.  Smiling sheepishly at his own bad manners, John mumbled, “Sorry, Sherlock.  I was even hungrier than I thought.”  When Sherlock didn’t answer, worry crept into John’s voice as he added, “Are you okay?  You haven’t even touched yours.”

   Sherlock set down his fork, pausing in his task of pulling the fish free from the breading to nudge one of his chips with the end of his finger.  

   John’s shoulders slumped in disbelief.  “Don’t play with your food.  What are you?  Five?”

   Sherlock fixed him with an unamused glare and spat, “She was very attractive.”

   Confusion hit John’s face like a frying pan and stuck.  “Our waitress?”

   Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration.  “Don’t be an idiot.  I mean, the woman near the door of the pub.  You were staring at her.”

   John turned his head slightly, his eyes unfocused as he tried to remember the face Sherlock was referring to.  When he could clearly picture the woman he said, “Oh, her?  Yeah, she was alright.  What of it?”

   Sherlock’s chair scraped roughly across the floor as he ejected from his seat.  The sudden movement startled John into dropping his fork, which clattered onto the table and added to the noise.  

   “Sherlock?” John asked, confused beyond belief.  

   “I say that I caught you eye-fucking someone else and you say, ‘What of it?’”

    John struggled to maintain his composure at Sherlock’s manic accusations.  “I was not- Yes, I happened to notice she was attractive.  That doesn’t mean I want to have sex with her.  I don’t just have sex with everyone I look at.  Just what the hell has gotten into you?”

   Sherlock looked around him as though waking from a nightmare, panic in his eyes.  What had come over him?  He had experienced twinges of jealousy where John was involved, even before their romantic involvement, but nowhere near this level of irrationality.  Sherlock conceded that he was overreacting and apologised, taking his seat again.  He picked up his fork once more but did not eat, his eyes burning through his plate shamefully instead.

   John breathed deeply and said, “Okay.  It’s fine, Sherlock.  I know you are probably upset, which just happens to manifest in... alternative ways.”

   Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s feeble attempts to psychoanalyse him.  When Sherlock still didn’t move to eat, John took a bite of his own food and chewed slowly, thinking.  He swallowed slowly and opted for light-hearted ease to smother his remaining frustration.  “That’s typical you,” John said.  “I mean, when most people get bored they find a hobby.  You unload bullets into the walls of our flat.”  John sighed but genuine warmth filled his voice when he added, “You’re not what anyone else would call conventional.”  Sherlock didn’t raise his eyes until he felt John’s hand warmly cover his.

   They ate the rest of their meal in companionable silence.  When they finished, John cleared the table and they moved into the large study where Sherlock’s father had kept the bulk of his paperwork.  Working together, John and Sherlock began sorting the files into manageable stacks, commenting as they went on anything remotely interesting they found.  Not before long, Sherlock returned to his usual self and John tried to forget the earlier outburst.  They worked late into the night until Sherlock read something aloud he thought John would find amusing but heard not even a chuckle.  Glancing over, Sherlock saw that John had fallen asleep right where he had been lying with his back upon the floor, a sheet of paper still clutched in the hand on his chest.  Sherlock checked his watch and his eyes widened.  He was surprised John had lasted as long as he had.  Watching the rise and fall of his lover’s chest decided him; Taking John to bed was more desirable than continuing to work.

   Crawling on all fours, Sherlock made his way to John’s side.  He sat back with his legs tucked under him and matched his own breathing to the rhythm John unconsciously created.  Sherlock ran his fingers lightly along John’s hairline before reaching down to take the paper from his hand.  In the dimness he had to squint at the handwritten note John had been holding.  It appeared to be nothing more than an old grocery list, though it had been kept in pristine condition, most likely caught between the pages of a book.  Before Sherlock could dwell on the list long enough to decide whether it was interesting or not, John grumbled in his sleep and rolled towards him.  Carefully setting the paper aside, Sherlock leaned over and kissed John’s face until he stirred.

   He mumbled incoherently, not fully awake and Sherlock kissed him again, on the mouth.  John kissed back lazily and heard papers rustle as Sherlock moved a column to get closer to him.  When John was awake enough, Sherlock helped him to his feet and led him upstairs.  Glad they had taken the time to make the bed up earlier in the day, John fell into it readily, already half-asleep again.  

   Sherlock smiled down at him before undressing John down to his pants.  Quickly, Sherlock took off his own clothes and climbed in next to John, who was snoring lightly.  Sherlock pulled the sheets over their two bodies and pulled John close to him.  Just before he drifted off, he thought of his father and wondered what, if anything, had made him hold on to the dull grocery list for all those years.

 


	6. E is for Enduring, E is for Extracurricular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new player arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Just a reminder- I started this story before series 3 aired. I took liberties)

   John awoke the next morning to the short, rapid bleats of a car horn.  He groaned and rolled over finding no obstacle in his path.  Sherlock had already gone.  John sat up, blinking, and roughly flattened his hair with one hand.  Stiffly, he climbed out of bed, putting on the first pair of jeans and the first shirt he could find.  Then he made a quick trip to the loo to brush his teeth and relieve himself.

   He made it all the way downstairs without any signs of Sherlock’s whereabouts.  With a short cough, John opened the heavy front door and stepped onto the porch, shielding his eyes from the early morning light.  He nodded at the sight of a familiar black car, mentally confirming that it must be Mycroft making his grand entrance.

   Sure enough, the door opened and long legs emerged clad in sleek suit trousers, followed by the always impeccably-dressed Holmes the Elder.  John’s surprise was saved for when Mycroft was shadowed by not one, but two female figures.  The brunette, John recognised.  It was Mycroft’s comely assistant Anthea, who texted furiously on her Blackberry, as usual.  The other woman, an informally dressed petite blonde, John had never seen before.  He watched her approach with an open face full of questions.  

   “You shouldn’t sleep on a floor, John.  Not even for a nap.  It’s bad on your shoulder,” Mycroft chastised in lieu of a greeting.

   John stared at him blankly.  “Hello, Mycroft.  Anthea.”

   Anthea stood off to the side and only gave a small hum in response.  

   More than used to this behaviour by now, John merely set his eyes on the mystery passenger and smiled his friendliest smile.  “I’m John Watson.  And you are?”

   The woman smiled warmly and held out her hand for a quick but firm shake.  “Pleasure to meet you.  I’m Mary, Mary Morstan.”

   She made direct eye contact which wasn’t condescending and didn’t appear to be rude or verbally abusive.  John liked her already.

   “Shall we go in?” John suggested awkwardly.  He was all too aware of how absurd it was for him to be playing host when the homeowner was stood right next to him.  Mycroft only smiled in a way that seemed like he was in pain as John led them all into the house.

   “You should have said you were coming this early, I would have prepared a large breakfast for you, Mycroft.”  Sherlock’s voice, dripping with disdain, echoed from the kitchen and Mycroft rolled his eyes.  John flushed a little with embarrassment.  It seemed something about being in his childhood home made Sherlock act even more immature than usual.  John turned towards their guest to apologise and prepare her for the next introduction but a smile already curled her lips in a way that John found most attractive.

   “Sherlock?” she asked excitedly.  John looked at Mycroft for explanation but he was already examining the handle of his umbrella as if he had just noticed a scratch on it.  Mary bound down the hallway towards the kitchen and John followed her.

   They reached the kitchen together in time to see Sherlock spin around holding two coffees.  When Mary’s eyes met Sherlock’s, John heard her gasp.  He moved past her quickly to get to Sherlock, whose gaze never left her.  For a moment he looked stunned, as if he had forgotten who she was.  For a moment, he had.  John took the coffee Sherlock seemed to be holding out to him and looked back as Mycroft joined them without Anthea.  

   “Sherlock, you remember Mary,” Mycroft said carefully.

   Sherlock blinked away his stupor.  “Yes, of course.”  After a long pause he almost whispered her name, “Mary.”

   John’s brow furrowed in an unexpected twinge of jealousy.  “Thanks for the coffee, love,” he said loudly to Sherlock before making a grand gesture of kissing Sherlock on the cheek.  John looked back at Mary, waiting for her reaction whilst hiding his smug smile behind the lip of his mug as it raised it to his lips.  

   Mary only looked away politely.

   Then John grumbled mid-sip before he could stop himself, “Sherlock you know I don’t take sugar.”

   Sherlock looked at John, whose surprise at the error was written all over his flustered face.  “Sorry,” he said, making a quick trade.  

   “It’s alright,” John murmured, feeling like nothing was fine.  Something about this woman threw Sherlock off his game, and he intended to find out why.

   The silence grew awkward until Mary interrupted with a cheery, “Well, I’m going to go see if Anthea needs help with anything, if that’s alright.”  She smiled once more at John, beamed at Sherlock, nodded to Mycroft, and exited.

   When she was safely out of earshot, Mycroft warned, “Sherlock…” as if he knew exactly what his brother was going to say.  

   As if on cue, Sherlock hissed, “I don’t want her here, Mycroft.  Send her away.”

   John could only look between them, helplessly unable to translate years of Holmes family drama.  

   With an exaggerated sigh, Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Sherlock, she has a right to be here.  This is her home.”

   “Wait, what?” John sputtered, setting his mug down more violently than he intended.

   Sherlock glanced at John and rolled his eyes, reading the assumption on the smaller man’s face.  “No, John, she isn’t my sister.  Her family worked for ours and they lived in the smaller house.”

   “Live,” Mycroft corrected cooly.  “Mary still currently resides here.  She was on holiday visiting her father but came back early for the funeral.”  Turning to John he added, “Mary and Sherlock played together as children, before Sherlock went away to school.”

   Sherlock’s face contorted into the expression he usually reserved for Anderson.  “We never played together.  She occasionally followed me around and interrupted my research with her incessant desire for human contact.  Just because we were relatively the same size did not mean I wanted to interact with her.”

   “Wow,” John huffed.  “So even as a child you were an insufferable dick.”

   Sherlock looked at him, wounded, but John smiled at him and it served as a salve.

   Sherlock stepped away from the counter stiffly and said, “I’m going into town.”

   “I’ll come with you,” John practically pleaded, not wanting to be left alone with Mycroft.  

   Sherlock only pressed a kiss lightly to his temple and told him that he wanted to be alone for a bit.  Against his wishes, John nodded.  So Sherlock left his boyfriend alone with his brother, his mind already fixated on other matters.

 

 


	7. F is for Faithful; F is for Fraudulent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sweater starts unraveling.

   Sherlock retrieved the motorbike from the shed and fought an urge to look back at the house.  He needed to think.  He needed to breathe.  Without her around.  Sherlock wished that John didn’t prove a distraction in his own way.  He didn’t cherish the thought of leaving them in that house together, but some things couldn’t be helped.  Besides, Mycroft would be there.

   Sherlock nodded to himself.  Mycroft could most certainly entertain John.  Then once Sherlock collected himself, he would go back.  No matter how long that task took.  After all, Sherlock told himself, the funeral wasn’t to be until the next day.

   Sherlock rode far enough that no one would come after him, then leaned the bike against a decrepit stone wall away from the road.  From there he walked around until the sun began to set and he felt sufficiently numb.  His mind still raced, but with an overwhelming desire to be near John again rather than his inexplicably alarming wish to be away from Mary.  With a heavy sigh, Sherlock took one last look around before embarking once again for his childhood home.  

   When he returned, the grounds were quiet.  A single light in the second house indicated that Mary was in her own home.  This allowed Sherlock to turn his attention fully to locating John, without the added burden of having to avoid running into her at the same time.

   After trying several rooms, Sherlock found John in his father’s study.  John’s eyes glanced at Sherlock before moving away.  Mycroft stood up from where he had been sitting across the room and quietly bid the two of them goodnight and left them alone.

   Irrational fear that John would never speak to him again clutched at Sherlock’s chest and he hesitated before moving closer.  

   John cleared his throat more forcefully than was necessary and struggled to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

   “Did you have a pleasant day?” John asked from his seat.

   Relieved, Sherlock leaned down to kiss John but pulled back when as intrusive scent filled his nostrils.  “Perfume,” he said accusingly.  “Clair de la Lune.”

   “What about it?” John asked, all innocence.

   Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he analysed John’s features and checked them again his catalog of John’s expressions and their corresponding meanings.  On the surface, he seemed open and relaxed, but Sherlock could pick up the tense undercurrent.  Gently, not wanting to draw too much attention, Sherlock reached out a hand to thumb lightly across John’s throat, finding his pulse.  He reached out his other hand to balance himself as he hovered over John’s chair.  He tried to make the movements as natural as possible.

   He leaned back in for a kiss, stopping just before their lips met to ask, “Why do you smell like perfume?”  His thumb felt John’s pulse quicken and his lungs burned with utter disappointment.  

  “Do I?” John asked, breathily.

   Sherlock pulled fully away.  The fire from his lungs had reached his eyes and he couldn’t bear to touch John.

   “Mary, John?  Really?”

   John cocked his head to the side and his jaw set as he realised what Sherlock was indelicately getting at.

   John’s face flushed with anger and he had to stop himself before he shouted.  In a barely controlled voice he said, “Sherlock - Maybe I smell like perfume because I was around Mary today.  Talking.  Because you left me alone.”

   “Talking?” Sherlock scoffed.

   “What the hell are you implying, Sherlock?”

   Sherlock met John’s forceful gaze and instantly felt absurd.  The rational part of his brain told him that he was overreacting.  He knew that John loved him.  Everything between them was fine.  That is, until they came to that house and all of his wires got crossed.  Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and sighed wearily.  

   “I’m sorry, John.  Being in this house and seeing her again is throwing me off.  I don’t know what I’m saying.”

   John stood up and pulled Sherlock’s hands away from his face.  He traced a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip before pulling him in for a gentle kiss.

   When they broke apart, John leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s sternum and whispered, “The funeral is tomorrow.  Maybe that’s really what’s upsetting you.”

  “If you think so,” Sherlock conceded, though they both knew he didn’t actually believe it.

   They held each other in the quiet study for several minutes until Sherlock felt John’s warmth find his doubts and scatter them to the winds.  When he relaxed fully, John pulled away and led him upstairs.  They parted company so John could make a quick stop in the bathroom before joining Sherlock in their temporary bedroom.

   Sherlock undressed and climbed onto the bed, sure he could still smell the perfume lingering in his nostrils.  He rolled over onto his side, trying to push the thought away when the smell grew sharper.  Sherlock pressed his nose harder into the sheets and the pungent smell of Mary slapped him across the face.  He jumped up to turn on the light.  Rushing back, his mind saw the rumpled sheets and on John’s pillow: a single, medium-length blonde hair.

   “What are you doing?” came John’s voice, full of worry.  He turned off the light and Sherlock brushed the hair quickly off the pillow.  

   “Nothing,” he said coldly.

   They climbed into the bed, and Sherlock was too-aware of the fact that John wasn’t touching him.

   Sherlock rolled away from him, closing his eyes and forcing his body to shut down and sleep, if only to take his mind off of the pain he felt.

 

 


	8. G is for Glorification; G is for Guile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does his best to soothe.

   The corner of Sherlock’s mouth pulled away in so strong a grimace that it threatened to tear away from the rest of his face.  He thrashed in his sleep, shoving away John and his unceasing warmth.  During the night their bodies had found each other’s, so Sherlock’s movement in forcing himself away roughly alerted the army doctor of a situation.  John was awake instantly, all too familiar with nightmares and their side effects.  He reached out carefully to stroke Sherlock’s distorted face, shushing white noise in a preemptive attempt at calming his sleepmate.

   John felt a bit awkward, as he was the one who usually bore the brunt of night terrors, at least between the two of them.  He did his best, and tried patiently to wait for Sherlock to wake.  When the thrashing only intensified, John pulled back before grasping Sherlock firmly by the shoulder and shaking him into consciousness.

   Sherlock’s eyes lolled in his head for a moment before he gathered his senses.  When his eyes focused, they flitted about, taking in the room.  No danger.  Then he turned towards John.  The sight of John sleep-rumpled clenched his stomach in a vile manner as he fought to shake off the most recent “John” of his subconscious.  That John had smiled tauntingly at him while shattering Sherlock’s world.  This John - the real John - looked far from happy.  His brow was knit in concern and he licked his lips nervously, eyes dark and alert with questions.

   Sherlock noted the distance between their bodies, though their legs were entwined, and John’s lack of attempt at closing it.  Sherlock’s nightmare nettled and whispered nasty confirmations in his brain that made him shiver.  He locked eyes with John for only a second before having to look away.  He still couldn’t look at him fully without feeling waves of nausea.  Opting to stare at the ceiling instead, his lips flattened tightly and his brow creased.  He opened his mouth to speak, thought better against it, and shut his jaw tightly again.  Taking a chance, he glanced at John, who looked calmer but still worried.

   Sherlock could read John like an open book.  But that was the issue.

   John could have no secrets, no protection in a world that exploited weaknesses.  The fact that he was the most trusting of Sherlock broke the man’s heart sometimes.  He, who offered so little of himself up.  John watched in silence as a battle raged over Sherlock’s face- his nightmare an aberration that became inseparable with the previous night’s doubts.  

   Sherlock was angry and hated that John had possibly lied to him.  Sherlock wanted to believe John.  To trust him completely.  John was supposed to be his exception that proved the rule.  John was his allowed weakness.

   He just didn’t know how to word his torment.  

   Sensing they weren’t going to get anywhere otherwise, John was the first to break the silence.

   “Don’t do that face,” he said, his voice some indistinct land between passive and aggressive and much too loud in the calm of the rest of the house.

   Sherlock squinted at John, his insecurities careening wildly out of control within him.

   John spoke again, in the commanding tone he adopted when Sherlock was being difficult.  “No, Sherlock.  You’re doing the we-both-understand-intense-nonverbal-discussion face.  You know how much I hate that face.  Please try and be communicative in a way that I might understand.  Preferably with words.”

   Sherlock released the breath he had been holding and said, in a detached manner that he hardly felt, “Obvious, John.  You’re having an affair.”

   John’s mouth fell open in disbelief.  In any other context, it might have been comical.  Then John grumbled angrily and rolled his tongue around in his mouth before pressing forward, “No.  I’m not.”

   Sherlock spoke quickly, his words steamrolling over John.  “The signs are there, it’s so obvious it’s boring.  Your rumpled shirt.  You reeked of her cheap perfume.  The hair.  In this very bed, John.  Shameless.  I mean, you even had lipstick on your collar, for God’s sake!  Talk about dull.”

   John blinked rapidly, trying to keep up with Sherlock’s nonsense, of which only about half made any kind of sense.  When Sherlock paused to take a deep, shuddering breath, John jumped in.  He cupped Sherlock’s cheek, gently urging Sherlock to look at him.  In a calm and sure voice he said, “I am not cheating on you, Sherlock.  That would require wanting to be with anyone other than you.”  With that he leaned over and planted a warm kiss to Sherlock’s clammy temple.

   Sherlock grabbed at John’s wrist in an almost fevered manner, his eyes manic and desperate as he finally voiced what had actually been the center of his unnerving.  “But last night.  And my dream.  Why would I dream that if it wasn’t my brain telling me something I was trying not to see?”

   John’s eyes met Sherlock’s stoically, and he worked carefully to soothe him.  “It was just a dream.  You imagined something that simply wasn’t true.  Doubt is what you are experiencing.  Everyone has those every once in a while.  For example: I constantly wonder how I got to be so lucky that you would even suffer to be in my mediocre company.”  Ignoring Sherlock rolling his eyes, he continued.  “Doubt is human, Sherlock.  Just know that your doubt about my fidelity is completely unwarranted.”

   Sherlock opened his mouth slightly to speak, but was cut off by John’s mouth crushing roughly against his.  Within a nanosecond, Sherlock responded.  Kissing John had become instinctual.  It came to him as easily as breathing and felt just as necessary for life-support.  John pulled away, checking to make sure that Sherlock believed him, his eyes confident yet asking.  Sherlock nodded his head slightly and John kissed him again, this time more tenderly.  They wrapped their arms around one another and enveloped themselves in comforting warmth.  Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of John, and nothing else.  He could feel John’s steady pulse beating through the tip of his nose, which was pressed into John’s neck.  John hummed contentedly and stroked Sherlock’s hair until he fell asleep once more.

 

 


	9. H is for Honesty; H is for Hoax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Holmes family reunion as Mr Holmes is laid to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We still have a ways to go but I promise it is going somewhere. This will make sense.  
> (Reminder - this is AU, so not the same characters as they appear in Series 3)

   John stood slightly behind and to the side of Sherlock at the freshly dug grave where Mr. Holmes was laid to rest.  He watched Sherlock carefully, ready to spring forward with a comforting hand at the first sign of a  trembling shoulder or bowed head.  To everyone else, the younger Holmes brother must have seemed completely unaffected.  Only John had been present to see how Sherlock had put on his black suit with particular care that morning.  He had seen the shuffling steps when the two of them met Mycroft in the hallway.  Together, the three of them had come down to the kitchen, where Mary was somberly waiting with coffees and teas.

   The conversation they had before they departed was awkward and stilted, until they just stopped trying.  Finally, two cars arrived to deliver them to the burial site, thankfully rescuing them from each other and themselves.  After a slight negotiation, John had persuaded Sherlock to ride with Mycroft, thinking that the brothers ought to turn up at their father’s funeral together in a display of filial solidarity.  This, of course, had left John to ride alone with Mary.  He had no problem with this- the two of them had got on quite well since they had met, but after Sherlock’s outbursts, John was hyper-aware of her body in relation to his.

   When the vehicles parked, joining less than a handful of others, John had been careful not to seem too familiar as he helped Mary out.  Holding the door stiffly, he released her hand as soon as both her feet touched earth.  The car door shut, and he nodded politely and immediately left her to join Sherlock’s side.

   The service had been brief.  As the cars suggested, there were not many present other than their small party.  Really it was only a regal-looking elderly woman and a handsome young man, both of whom made a point to take a seat far away from anyone else.  Afterwards, their morbid congregation had walked out to the grave.  It was there that they stood, each one silently contemplating different things.

   Throughout all this, Mary had dutifully hung near the back.  John, realising that he should probably give the family privacy, joined her.  When he approached, John let himself notice how she was dressed tastefully, but in a way that flattered her assets.  She looked towards the group of would-be mourners nervously.

   “All right?” John asked politely, though not without concern.

   Mary smiled with her mouth closed but it didn’t reach her eyes.  “Fine,” she stammered.  “It’s just…”

   When her words trailed off, John moved closer, hoping to inspire confidence.  

   “Sorry,” she said.  “I shouldn’t be complaining.  I just feel a bit strange, being here.”

   John chuckled his commiseration and scratched the tip of his nose, his other hand thrust deeply into his pocket.  He turned his back to the group and said, “I don’t mean to laugh.  It’s just that I feel incredibly strange as well.  More useless, I suppose.  I mean, I’m here for Sherlock, but I’m not even sure if he even needs me.  As for you- well, at least you actually  knew the man.”

   Mary lowered her face to the ground and John hoped she was covering a smile.  Then her eyes shut tight and she drew in a shaky breath.  John knew she was crying and moved quickly to pull her into a hug.  Sherlock’s aloofness was hard to counteract, but Mary’s visceral grief was textbook.  John knew that when someone cried, it was nice to just hold them for a bit.  Mary clung to John desperately before pulling away, embarrassed.

   “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, wiping at the stains her tears had left on John’s shirt.

   “It’s fine,” John reassured her.  Wanting to distract, he added, “Perhaps you can repay me by telling me just who the hell that posh-looking bloke is.  I swear I’ve seen him around somewhere.”

   Mary opened her mouth but her words caught in her throat as her eyes widened at something over John’s shoulder.

   “Distant cousin.  You’ve seen him on telly.  It’s not important,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled from right behind John.  In response to the sound, John’s entire body stiffened in surprise.  

   “I thought that was him!” John exclaimed, shaking his head at the ground.  “Sherlock, how come you never told me-”  Sherlock’s expression when John turned to face him stopped the doctor’s mouth mid-sentence.

   “John, we’re going back to the house.  Mary, I suggest you go back to  your house until the other guests leave.”

   Mary swallowed, nodding, but John protested hotly.  

   “Sherlock, that’s horrible.  She shouldn’t have to hide unless I’m not welcome either.”

   Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking as if he could have lashed out, just as the clipped tones of Mycroft and the elderly woman reached their ears.  

   In a much-suffered tone the woman was loudly inquiring, “Mike, dear, what is that horrible old girl doing here?  Did you actually invite her?  Tell her to leave immediately.”

   Mary burst into fresh tears and half-jogged back to one of the cars.  

   “What a shitty thing to say,” John mumbled.

   “John.”  Sherlock spoke a warning but John ignored him.

   “Excuse me,” John blurted at the woman.

   Surprised, she turned to face him.

   John took a deep breath, bracing himself, and said, “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but Mary is a kind person and she’s in mourning just like you.  She doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

   “And who the devil are you, defending her like that?” the woman shrieked.  John saw her eyes widen and their unusual coloring made his stomach drop to his knees.

   “Oh my God, you’re his mother,” John exhaled.  "Obviously."

   “Yes, always an astute observer, our doctor,” Mycroft carolled sarcastically.  “John Watson, may I introduce Evangeline Holmes, our mother.  Mother, this is John Watson, Sherlock’s…” Mycroft rooted around for an appropriate term before settling on, “Partner.”

   John felt his mouth go dry.

   “Sherlock’s partner?” Mrs. Holmes asked, causing her younger son to release an impatient groan.

   “Yes,” Sherlock interjected before John could make the situation worse, or surpassing that, sentimental.  “John and I work and cohabit together.”

   “I must say I thought I’d never meet you, Mrs. Holmes,” John said hurriedly, never one to be intimidated by Sherlock’s rougher manners.  “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

   As the woman sized John up he felt the blood leave his face under her scrutiny.  At least he knew that was a genetic trait. 

   Haughtily, she asked him, “Now that you know who I am, do you still feel the need to defend that sniveling girl?”

   John squared his shoulders, aware that all the Holmes’ eyes were locked on him.  Even the distant cousin, alert to something happening, had come closer to see what the small shouty-man was going to do next.

   “Yes,” John said firmly, tucking his chin.  “What you did was mean.”  

   Silence fell and John’s ears focused on the leaves rustling in the nearby trees and his own heavy exhalation.  Everyone else held their breath.  

   Then, quick as a shot, Mrs. Holmes let out a sharp laugh that shook her entire body.

   John blinked in surprise, sucking in air.  

   “I like you, John Watson.”  She held out a hand and he carefully took it, confusion written plainly over his face.  She smiled at his raised eyebrows and open mouth and elaborated.  “I worried our Sherlock would never settle down, but I can rest easy knowing he has found someone as stubborn as he is.”

   Sherlock frowned out of the corner of his mouth and John’s eyes met Mycroft’s, silently begging him for assistance.

   “Come, Mother,” Mycroft said, coming to the rescue.  “Let’s go back to the house for tea.  You can ride with me.  Sherlock and John will follow behind in the other car.”

   As he finished speaking, Mycroft stared pointedly at the both of them, emphasising with his eyes that they had better follow his suggestion as instruction.  John looked at the ground but nodded his understanding.  When Mycroft and his mother stepped away a moment later, John turned to Sherlock, his eyes full of both apologies and arguments.

   “Yes, I know,” Sherlock barked, cutting off John before he could even open his mouth to speak.  “I should have introduced you to my mother earlier, but as you can see, I was trying to remove Mary from the situation first.”

   “Oh God, Sherlock.”  John put his head in his hands and moaned, “Your mother hates me now.”

   “No, she doesn’t.  She likes you, in fact.”

   “But why was she so horrible to Mary?”

   Sherlock looked off into the distance, hating that John was still focused on her, and shrugged.  “Mary has always been a … difficult topic for her.”

   John knew that Sherlock was avoiding something, but didn’t press him.  Looking around, John saw that everyone had left, with the exception of Mary, who was in the car waiting for them.  John reached out a hand and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him in for a hug, needing the contact and knowing Sherlock wouldn’t have allowed it earlier.  

   After a few heartbeats, Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around John, breathing him in.  As he pulled away again, he brushed his lips gently across John’s cheek.  Roughly, John brought him back down for a proper kiss that made their built-up tension melt away.

   Remembering that Mary was still waiting (and probably watching), John grabbed Sherlock’s hand, broke the kiss, and led him to the car.  At first, Mary insisted they take the vehicle abandoned by Mrs. Holmes, but John assured her he would not leave her to ride alone.  So Mary sat between them, showing no signs that she had seen their private moment.  She silently stared at Sherlock, but when his gaze adamantly remained on the changing view outside his window, she turned her attention to John.

   They made small talk without Sherlock’s input all the way back to the house, where Mary insisted on leaving them to go to her own home to freshen up and have a quiet moment to herself.  After the earlier scene, they all knew John’s efforts to include her for tea were mostly a formality, but Mary was grateful for the kindness nevertheless.  

   They bade their farewells, John staying behind to watch her walk away before moving to join Sherlock on the porch.  Sherlock’s jaw was set in irritation at the fuss being made over the woman he thought of as a usurper.  It didn’t help his mood when John’s hand started twitching and flexing.  John was panicked, at the last second remembering that Sherlock’s mother was inside the manor waiting for them.  He would have to make conversation.  There might be no escape for hours.

   “You know what?” John blurted.  “I think I’m going to excuse myself as well.”

   “Really, John?”  Sherlock sounded partly annoyed but partly relieved.  

   John nodded.  “Yeah.  This is Holmes business and you don’t need me distracting you with silly questions every five minutes.  I’m just going to go for a long walk instead.  I’ll see you later, love.”

   Sherlock looked John over with his piercing gaze before saying, “Okay.”

   Then, with neither one glancing back, they parted.

 

   Hours after Mrs. Holmes absented herself from the premises, Sherlock heard John return, directly entering the bathroom down the hall from their room for a long shower.  

   When John finally finished and met with Sherlock again, the rattled detective had already run through every possible reason as to why John had showered before Sherlock had laid eyes on him.  He ran through each narrative eight times.  Thirteen of the total scenarios involved Mary in some fashion.  Out of the thirteen, six were sexual in nature.  

   It didn’t put his mind at ease when John slinked through the door of their bedroom with a guilty look on his face.  

   “Sorry,” he said lamely.  “I just lost track of time.”

   “Obviously,” was all Sherlock could manage in reply.  

   John had dressed in a light gray t-shirt and crimson boxers.  He wiped his palms on the cloth covering his upper thighs, the glimpse of warm muscle momentarily distracting Sherlock.  He shifted where he sat on the bed, finding the suit he had been wearing comfortably all day suddenly confining.  

   John looked about the room before asking, “So how was your visit with your mum?  I mean, is she doing okay?”   
   Ignoring his boring question, Sherlock stood and crossed the room in long strides until he was crowding John against the shut door.  He leaned in, feeling slightly sick as he nuzzled into the familiarity of John’s neck.  He wondered if Mary had done the same thing since he had last seen her.  

   John moaned before he could stop himself, conscious that he would be heard in the hallway.

   Sherlock imagined John moaning with Mary the same way.  As the sound echoed in his mind his brain turned molten.  Desperate for data that proved one way or the other, Sherlock decided to just push John and get it over with.

   “Sex, John.  Now,” he growled.

   John sighed, leaning his head back.  “Sherlock, I’m really not in the mood.  I mean, we went to your father’s funeral today.  I can’t think of anything less romantic.”

   Sherlock stepped back with military precision and studied John’s face carefully.

   “What?” John asked.

   Sherlock considered being more direct.  He wanted to ask John if he had participated in sexual intercourse with Mary Morstan, but a small part of his mind shouted that he was being irrational.  Surely John was only showing signs of guilt because he had been gone for hours without checking in.  Back at home, Sherlock was never so distressed by John’s absences.  John only checked in as a courtesy.  

   Sherlock knew that if he accused John right then, and he was wrong, John would be more than upset.  He could only cry wolf so many times without strong evidence.  

   So instead of causing a scene, Sherlock said, “It’s probably nothing.  It was just a taxing day, I think.”

   John clearly wanted to avoid an argument as well, because he let the ‘probably’ go unchallenged.  

   To smooth the harshness of Sherlock’s mouth, John leaned in and kissed him quickly before climbing into bed.  This only left Sherlock the option of undressing and turning out the light before joining him.  

   John snuggled into Sherlock’s side and whispered, “I do love you, Sherlock.”

   Sherlock felt something shatter in his heart as he whispered back into the darkness, “I love you, too.”

   Several minutes passed before Sherlock, not able to bite his tongue any longer, whispered, “You were with her?”

   John’s light snores were the only reply.

   Sherlock remained awake until the first light of dawn, when he made his way quietly to his father’s study.

   John awoke to a cold bed, unsurprised to find himself alone.  Sherlock often had trouble sleeping, even on days when he hadn’t buried his father or thrown multiple tantrums.

   John rolled over on to his back and glared at the ceiling.  He felt bad about the way he had acted at the funeral, but much worse about what he had done after.  John covered his eyes, glad Sherlock wasn’t there to see his shame.  At some point, John knew he had to tell Sherlock that he had been with Mary for most of the previous evening.  It didn’t take a consulting detective to see that Sherlock suspected something.  And honestly it was more insulting for John to remain silent in the face of one as observant as his lover.  So a decision was made, partly for a chance to clear his mind and partly to avoid Sherlock a little longer: John went for a run.

   He pushed himself as far as he could before turning to jog back.  He was soaked with sweat and his limbs felt like jelly when he saw her.  She was standing by the road, near the mossy stone wall that ran along it.  She appeared to be looking for something.

   “Mary?” John called, and she turned.

   He slowed down to a shuffle as he approached her, suddenly self-conscious of how much he was sweating.  

   Mary smiled broadly at John as he stopped and leaned over to catch his breath.  

   When he stood back up he looked at her seriously and said, “We need to talk about yesterday.”


	10. I is for Intimacy; I is for Infidelity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little messy.

   Sherlock stood in the kitchen, watching the clock as he waited for John to return from wherever he had disappeared to.  He sipped his third cup of coffee, desperate for a cigarette.  Sherlock had been in the study but Mycroft had intruded, taking all of the harmony from Sherlock's meditation with his overbearing presence.  All it had taken was for Mycroft to glance questioningly at him before Sherlock huffed loudly and stormed out.  Thankfully Mycroft had remained behind with his apparent suspicions.

   Aggravated, Sherlock saw that his knee was bouncing erratically as he half-leaned off the stool in the kitchen.  He downed the remainder of his coffee and exited the stifling space.  He made it out onto the porch just in time to see John and Mary approaching.  Together.

   The sight of her near his John sent Sherlock into a mania that only intensified when he observed the state of them.  Mary had mud on her knees and her hair was a mess.  John had a sheen of sweat on him and mud on the bottom of his shoes.  He looked a complete and utter wreck.  Before either of them could pause long enough to be shocked by Sherlock's barely-controlled animosity, he was grabbing Mary's hands roughly and pulling them up to his face.  

   "Moss," he spat vehemently.

   "Sherlock?" John asked.  "What's going on?"

   Sherlock spun on John violently.  "I could ask you the same question, John, except that I already know the answer.  Tell me, John.  Did you like it?  Was she better than me?"

   Mary looked stunned.  "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

   "Oh, don't play innocent, Mary.  I know the two of you are having sex.  It's obvious!"

   "What?" Mary sputtered.

   John moved to step between them.  Careful to keep his eyes on Sherlock, he called over his shoulder, "It's alright, Mary.  Just go inside.  I'll handle this."

   "You'll handle this, John?"  Sherlock was screaming and couldn't stop.  "Will you handle me like she handled you when she sucked you off by the road?  Was it thrilling, knowing you could have been seen by someone at any moment?"

   "Jesus, Sherlock," John shouted in disbelief.  "What the fuck has gotten into you?"

   "Evidence, John.  Look at the placement of mud on each of you.  Look at her hair, where you were pulling it- a particular habit of yours, I might add.  Her hands were pressed against a mossy wall.  A child could put that together."

   "Mary, go inside," John repeated.  She had been fidgeting behind him, but at John's second command, she obeyed.  In a controlled voice, John spoke slowly, "Sherlock, come with me.  Come see the evidence at the scene that will show you nothing happened."

   Sherlock pulled away, his eyes wild, but John grabbed his arm and dragged him down the lane and to the road.  When he reached the spot he had met with Mary, he released Sherlock's arm and pointed to the ground.

   "Look, Sherlock," he growled roughly.  "I went for a run and on the way back stopped here," he paused to point at the imprints his shoes had made, "When I saw Mary."  John pulled Sherlock a few feet back the way they had come and pointed at two circular dents in the mud.  "Mary was kneeling here, trying to get at something in the wall.  I stopped and we talked for a bit.  Then I asked what she was doing.  She told me she just remembered something she had stuck in the wall years ago and was trying to get it.  I offered my help, and jumped over the wall."

   Sherlock followed John's gaze to where mud from the bottom of John's shoe had scraped off as he had climbed over the low wall.  John demonstrated the move for him again, and Sherlock noted an almost identical mud print.  Hastily he followed John over the wall, as he was still narrating.  

   "Then, on this side, I crouched down and helped her pull out this."  John reached in the pockets of his shorts and pulled out a small coin, holding it out for Sherlock to inspect.  Sherlock snatched the small disc from John's grip and turned it over in his hand.  "It was buried so deep in the wall it was easier to get from this side."

   Sherlock examined the coin for several breaths before finally he said, "This was mine when I was a child."

   John sighed.  "Yes.  Mary said she took it to bury a treasure that you could find.  She just wanted to play pirates with you but you wouldn't let her.  She was looking for it today so she could give it back and try and smooth over whatever your problem is with her."

   Sherlock's mouth fell open, "But..."

   "Nothing is going on between me and Mary, Sherlock.  Last night, I walked around for a while before Mary invited me in for dinner.  Then we talked about you.  For hours."

   "But," Sherlock insisted.  "The shower.  You looked so guilty.  You obviously didn't want sex because you had just had your fill with her."

   John closed his eyes and shook his head.  "Listen, I felt bad because I didn't want to make an ass of myself in front of your mum again.  And I didn't want sex because I was tired and your father was fresh in the ground and Mycroft was right down the hall."

   Despite the evidence, Sherlock was still fighting to believe John.

   "So, she hasn't-"

   "No," John insisted.  "She hasn't touched me.  No one has touched me since you have.  Christ, I haven't even touched myself."

   In a flash, Sherlock had dropped the coin and was reaching down the front of John's pants inside his shorts.  John hissed at the unexpected contact, but pressed into Sherlock's hand.  Sherlock moved deeper until he was cupping John's balls.  They felt swollen and Sherlock knew he hadn't ejaculated recently.  

   Sherlock moved his hand back up slightly and John pressed roughly into it, grinding himself into Sherlock's hand as he heatedly found Sherlock's mouth with his own.  The sudden movement threw them off-balance and they slipped in the mud.  They landed heavily, somehow managing to pull away just before they would have slammed their faces together.  Sherlock had fallen on his back with John on top of him.  He could feel mud slowly soaking into his clothes and hair, but he still had his hand in John's pants.  He found he didn't mind the mess as John was completely hard in his palm.  He could feel his own tumescence straining against his sleep pants as John wriggled against it to straddle him.

   "Do you believe me now, Sherlock?" John asked between coarse kisses.

   "Yes," Sherlock moaned, bucking against him.

   "Good," John growled.  "Now shut up and fuck me."

   Sherlock didn't need to hear it twice.  In a frenzy, he managed to pull John's shorts and pants down over one ankle while John simultaneously released Sherlock from his sleep pants.  John leaned forward to kiss him, pressing their erections together almost painfully.

   Sherlock moaned against his mouth with want.  Then John looked down to see that his hands were pressed into the mud on both sides of Sherlock's face.  He pulled away to awkwardly ask, "Sherlock, can you?  I've got mud."

   Sherlock nodded and John rose off of him just enough to Sherlock could line them up with the hand that had been down John's pants.  With Sherlock guiding them, John slowly lowered himself, wincing at the burn.  Sherlock was already slick with pre-cum, but it wasn't nearly enough to make his entrance painless.

   John pulled away and made a second attempt.  He did this again and again until he was fully seated on Sherlock.  Then they rocked together.  The sound of their bodies slapping together added to the squelch of the mud underneath them in a cacophony.

   John groaned louder and louder with each of Sherlock's thrusts, sure that he could come just like that.  John leaned back on his heels, grabbing Sherlock's shins behind him for support.  Sherlock leaned up to grab John's hips, working to find John's prostate.  He knew exactly when he succeeded because John's head fell back in ecstasy.  Sherlock found the angle of John's strong torso to be achingly beautiful, especially with the full sight of John's cock fully exposed, teasing him.  Letting John take control of their rhythm, Sherlock reached a hand out and gently grabbed John, jerking him off in cadence contrary to his bucking.  

   Sherlock moaned, then John was coming, his muscles clenching around Sherlock in waves.  Sherlock fucked him through his orgasm before letting himself come with a few last deep plunges.

   Panting, John collapsed onto Sherlock's chest with Sherlock still inside him.  When he moved again, Sherlock slipped free of him, spent.

   John sat forward and kissed his lover deeply, his fingers leaving muddy trails on Sherlock's cheeks.  Sherlock felt stuck and decided he would be content to lay in that mud for the rest of the day.

   John, however, had other plans.  Carefully, he got into a crouching position to put his pants and shorts back on before lifting his head above the wall.  Seeing that no one was around, he leaned back to help Sherlock stand and fix his clothes as best as he could.  Semen darkened part of Sherlock's shirt, so John scraped muddy hands over it, effectively disguising the signs of their lovemaking.  Not able to resist, John continued to wipe his hands clean over the rest of Sherlock's chest.

   "Hey!" Sherlock exclaimed as he chuckled, "You're buying me a new shirt."

   "Worth it," John laughed.  He stepped back and looked Sherlock over.  "You look like the Swamp Thing."

   "The Swamp what?"

   "Nevermind.  Let's go get cleaned up."

   Together, they clambered back over the wall with weak knees and ambled back to the house, leaving a trail of filth in their wake.

   When they reached the porch they eyed each other warily.

   Sherlock spoke first.  "Mycroft will literally have us killed if we track mud through the house."

   "Right," John agreed.  "Shall we strip out here?"

   "It can't be avoided," Sherlock said with mock-seriousness.  "Our very lives depend on it.  Once we're inside we'll have to make a mad dash upstairs."

   "I'm ready whenever you are," John said, the thrill of this game coursing through his veins.  

   Sherlock issued the command and they raced to undress and get inside, covering themselves with their hands.

   They both burst into fresh laughter as they encountered a scandalised Mycroft on the stairs, who could only sigh wearily and roll his eyes as they ran past.

   They made it to the shower and cleaned off thoroughly before returning to their bed for lazy morning sex.

   When they finished, John pulled Sherlock onto his chest and entwined their fingers, their arms outstretched on one side.

   "Sherlock?" John murmured into freshly shampooed and still damp curls.

   "Mmm?"

   John's voice was warm with affectionate concern as he asked, "Are you sure you're okay?  I mean, about your father?"

   Sherlock stared at their hands while he chewed over an answer.  "Honestly," he said finally, "I'm not sure how I feel about it.  If I feel about it."

   "Okay," John said after a pause.  "Well, if you ever need to talk about it..."  John let the rest of the sentence hang, knowing Sherlock was understand.

   They lay in the quiet, just breathing, until Sherlock suggested a wonderful idea.

   "Brunch?"

   "Oh, God, yes."

 

 


	11. J is for Joined, J is for Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John stop by for a visit.

   John ate like a starving man.  He smiled across the table at Sherlock, who grinned back unabashedly.  John was blissfully happy to see Sherlock acting more-or-less like his usual self again.  When they finished eating, John gathered their dirty clothes, rinsing them with a hose outside before putting them in the laundry.  Then, he joined Sherlock in the study.  They spent the next several hours filing away any important documents they could find until Mycroft found them.  The elder Holmes cleared his throat loudly to get their attention and John felt his cheeks heat.

   As if their morning run-in had never transpired, Mycroft said coolly, “I have urgent business to attend to in London.  Can I leave the rest of this work for you two to finish?”  

   Sherlock, not looking up, said, “Another war already, brother?”  

   John smiled at the remark but answered the original question, “Yeah, I think we can handle this.”

   “Excellent.  Goodbye, John Watson.  And Sherlock-” Mycroft waited until he had a fair portion of Sherlock’s attention before continuing, “Behave yourself.”

   With this Mycroft nodded his farewells again and departed.

   Hours later, John sat, blinking.  He had sorted through papers until he was dizzy.  Taking a deep breath, he scrubbed his face with his hands.  He had been putting off something he felt was important, something necessary, in order to preserve Sherlock’s good mood, but it couldn’t be delayed any longer.  

   “Sherlock, we need to go apologise.”

   “For what?”

   “For you accusing Mary of sleeping with me.”

   Sherlock set aside the paper he had been reading and sighed, “Must I?”

   “Yes, Sherlock,” John said with exasperation.

   Sherlock waged a war with his eyes.  John, ever the soldier, refused to surrender.  Finally, Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and barked, “Fine, then.  If it will appease you, let’s get it over with.”

   John grinned triumphantly, whispering, “Thank you,” as Sherlock rose gracefully from his armchair.  Then, together, they went to the smaller house and knocked loudly on the door.

   Mary answered with alarming quickness, her face flushed and her hair tied back.  The strong smell of household chemicals assaulted their olfactory senses.  

   “Can we come in?” John asked with his most pleasant smile.

  “Of course, sorry,” Mary stammered, shaking her head.  “Apologies for the strong smell.  I’ve been cleaning.”  She stepped aside, gripping the door for support as she ushered them  in.  “Is everything alright?”

   John cleared his throat and nudged Sherlock in the rib as they stepped inside.  Sherlock sighed and with a forced breath he said, “I should not have accused you of having sexual intercourse with John without more substantial evidence.”

   “What?” Mary blurted.

   “He means that he’s sorry,” John added quickly.

   Mary’s voice went flat.  “Yes, I got that.  It’s just that Sherlock has never apologised to me before.  I’m just a little surprised.”

   John blushed, “Yes, well.  We’re working on that.  Baby steps.”

   The conversation wilted before it could bloom, so John just looked around.  

   “Tea?” Mary said, scrambling for something to relieve the tension in the room.  Her eyes only left Sherlock’s face when John spoke again.

   “Thank you,” he said.

   Mary’s kitchen was decidedly smaller than the one in the main house, but it was clean and tidy.  John and Mary made awkward small talk while Sherlock watched Mary move about the space as graceful as a dancer.

   John had turned to examine some of the decor when he heard her stop mid-sentence.  When he turned around, he saw Mary reaching towards the cabinet top shelf with Sherlock’s body pressed against her back, his fingers grasping the tea tin she had been reaching for.

   Sherlock set the tea on the counter loudly and moved back across the room.  John watched, speechless, as Mary spun around quickly, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ears while her eyes focused on an invisible spot on the floor.  A strange pressure pushed against John’s chest at the seemingly intimate moment and he shook it away.

   In a voice louder than perhaps necessary, Mary blurted, “John!  In our previous discussions I neglected to tell you about the last time I saw Sherlock.  Would you like to hear about it?”

   The corners of John’s mouth tilted upwards out of habit as he looked at Sherlock, but Sherlock was looking out the small window, his lean body balanced against the counter with his arms crossed.  

   “Yes, of course,” John said, turning back to Mary.  “I love hearing about Sherlock’s life before I met him.

   Mary’s face lit up and she spoke rapidly while continuing to make their tea.  “Well, we must have been about fourteen or fifteen.  He was all limbs, like most tall kids during growth spurts.”  John smiled at the image of an awkward Sherlock while Mary went on.  “It was the one year that our schools had a break that overlapped and we both actually went home.  I remember being so excited, so ready to see him again after years.  Then, within five seconds, he had announced loudly that I had been smoking while away at school and was failing maths!  Mary scoffed good-naturedly and glanced wide-eyed at Sherlock.  John saw that Sherlock’s complete attention had returned to Mary, his brow furrowed and mouth parted slightly.

   “Of course the git was right.  I remember being so bloody angry at him for telling my dad.  Of course, it was really my own fault, but Sherlock’s father found out and gave me such a stern lecture.  I was mortified, but at least it made me clean up my act.”

   Mary smiled fondly at the memory and John shook his head, completely able to imagine Sherlock doing just that.

   “I didn’t know at the time,” Sherlock said, in a voice that barely carried across the room.  

   “What?” Mary asked.

   “At the time, I didn’t know your mother had died,” Sherlock answered.  “Excuse me,” he said before hastily leaving the house through the kitchen’s side door.  

   Mary and John’s eyes met before Mary wordlessly followed Sherlock out.  John moved to go with her but was stopped by the kettle whistling impatiently.  He rushed to finish making the tea, desperate to know what was happening.  Before he could make his way outside, Mary was already coming back into the kitchen.

   “Is everything alright?” John asked, concerned.

   Mary smiled weakly and rubbed her hands on her elbows as she stepped closer.

   “Yeah, I’m okay.  My mom actually died when I was young, after Sherlock was sent away to school.  Whenever Sherlock came home, my dad and I always went somewhere.  I don’t know why.  The time that we saw each other again was only because I insisted we stay.”

   John chewed his bottom lip.  “Sorry,” he said, “But you know Sherlock notices everything.  How could he not know about your mother?”

   Mary shrugged her shoulders.  “Like I said, he was away.  He mostly kept to himself anyways.”

   John shook his head, still not quite comprehending.  

   Mary hummed a little, picking up the mug John had set out for her.

   Wanting to talk more, but also wanting to include Sherlock, John asked Mary to join them for dinner.

   Mary accepted the offer graciously and John smiled.


	12. K is for Kismet, K is for Knackish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in this posting! I have been super busy lately and I JUST SAW WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE LIVE it was amazing wow yes.  
> So, thank you for your patience as always.  
> To start this chapter off, might I also quote Arrested Development when I say, "Her?"  
> Thanks for reading xoxo

   “I’m going to do the shopping.  Is there anything you’d like to add to the list?” Mary asked from where she stood in the hall just outside the study.  

   Sherlock visibly stiffened at the sound.  It was not that her presence disturbed him.  Rather, he had grown quite used to her, as over the last several days she had been in his and John’s company more often than not.  No, it had been her exact words that gave him pause.  His mind circled around and around “shopping” and “list” while John rattled off item after sensible item.

   Obediently, Mary jotted them down and flitted away with a cheeky wink.  Somehow, she had wedged herself into their lives and into their daily routine effortlessly.  It was almost as if she had always been there.  For Sherlock, in a way, this was almost true.  

   Sherlock heard the door slam and moved, overturning a pile of paper he had set aside the week before.  He ignored John’s protests and kept digging until he found what he had been looking for: the shopping list John had previously found among his father’s books.

   “I think this has to do with Mary,” Sherlock said aloud, to himself.

   “How?” replied John from the floor, out of habit.

   Sherlock frowned in concentration, examining the paper again.  It was clearly written by a female hand.  The paper was a few decades old, judging from the yellowed tint, lighter only from being pressed between heavy papers.  What intrigued Sherlock the most was the question of why his father had kept the valueless scrap of paper.

   “Why does this make me think about Mary?  And vice versa?  It’s obvious she didn’t write it.”

   John leaned back, knowing that Sherlock was simply offering his smooth baritone to his inner musings.  Yet, unbidden, John answered him.

   “Female?  Older?  Perhaps Mary’s mother?”

   Sherlock’s eyes dug into John as he took a measured step forward.  “But then why would my father hold on to it for so long?”

   John shrugged his shoulders, already distracted by the work around them.  Casually, he tossed out the Holmes reprehensible adage, “Sentiment?”

   “Why would he care?” Sherlock demanded, casting the looseleaf aside and fisting his hands into his curls and tugging lightly.  The groan of frustration in his voice made John turn back to look at him.  

   “Maybe because she died, Sherlock.  What if that was the last grocery list she wrote before she died and he found it and decided to keep it?  People do things like that sometimes.”  

   With a loaded sigh Sherlock shook his head vehemently and picked the list up again, moving it carefully somewhere it would not get mixed up in the rest of the paperwork.  John’s attention was once again on the coded ledger he had been trying unsuccessfully to decipher.  His back remained to Sherlock, whose attention was suddenly rerouted.  John simply wasn’t paying the usual attention to him.  So, with the stealth of a jungle cat stalking its prey, Sherlock carefully moved onto the floor near where John was crouched and crawled on his hands and knees until he was behind John.  Just as John started to turn back to add something to the conversation, Sherlock pounced, tackling him to the floor and climbing on top of him.  

   With John securely caught within his grasp, Sherlock took his time, running a hand slowly from John’s neck down his side to his pelvis.  

   “Mary will be out for a while,” Sherlock whispered.  “We’re all alone.”

   John smiled wickedly at the obvious implication.  Though Sherlock had grown used to Mary, he had observed that her being around constantly severely lessened the amount of personal time he and John could carve out to be alone.  Not that Sherlock cared who was around; the privacy was for John’s comfort.  

   Sherlock growled and swiped his hot tongue under John’s chin.  He pressed a thigh between John’s legs and could already feel his growing erection.  Grinning against John’s chin, Sherlock slid forward, both to lend friction and to suck on John’s earlobe.  John’s sure hands wrapped around Sherlock’s waist in response as he moaned.

   Just then, Mary entered Sherlock’s mind again.  

   Her image superseded John’s body below him and felt a rush of unwanted exhilaration.  It was a short burst, a solar flare of a thought, but it was enough to throw him off.  Sherlock’s body just wanted to touch John’s, but his mind had offensively interrupted.

   John kissed Sherlock, but quickly noticed that Sherlock had vacated the session.  Leaning his head back, John sighed with unfulfilled frustration and went slack, his arms falling to the floor loudly.  He called Sherlock’s name monotonously, again and again until he finally caught his attention.  

   “What is it, Sherlock?”

   “What?”  Sherlock knew he couldn’t tell John the truth.  Not this time.  It would wound his ego for one thing.  For another, Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure why the hell he had thought of her like that.  “Sorry,” was all he could muster.

   Licking his lips, Sherlock stared into John’s eyes.  His pupils were blown wide from the shade of Sherlock’s body looming over him combined with his arousal.  The sight made the heat pool in Sherlock’s groin again.  

   “Sorry, that list just keeps popping into my brain and distracting me.”

   John reached up a hand and tenderly cupped Sherlock’s cheek, rubbing his thumb in circles over the sharp bone.  “Hey,” he said softly.  “I know you don’t like it when the pieces won’t fit.  But I’m still offended that less than half an A4 has more of your attention than I do.  To make it up to me, you can just take me to bed early tonight, yeah?”

   Sherlock closed his eyes as the corner of his mouth lifted and nodded, rolling off of John in one smooth motion.  

   John groaned audibly as he pulled himself up into a sitting position.  Together, they stood.  John brushed his hands against the backs of his legs before leaning over to playfully capture Sherlock’s mouth once more.  This time, Sherlock responded with zealous attention, gripping John’s arms and pulling him close, crushing their bodies together.  

   John pulled away for air, face flushed.  Hungrily, he pressed his appreciation-seeking hardness into Sherlock’s inner thigh and rocked his hips.  In concession, Sherlock pulled him tighter with a moan.

   John kissed Sherlock delicately before taking his hand and leading him to their room.

   That night, Sherlock bedded John thoroughly, basking in him.  Every touch was careful and precise, given with the care and consideration John deserved.  John was taken over, completely submerged in Sherlock.  When they reached climax, Sherlock’s tumbling expertly over the finish of John’s, Sherlock felt shattered.  

   John had become the epicenter of his world years ago, and Sherlock couldn’t imagine life without him.  He didn’t want to imagine that kind of life.  But almost as a final act, Sherlock’s father had managed to threaten his hard-won happiness.  His death had brought the two of them to this house, had brought them into Mary’s realm, and Sherlock had never hated his father for anything more.

   Sherlock sighed in John’s embrace and John pulled him closer, burying kisses like wishes into Sherlock’s curls.

   “Can we go home soon?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to disguise his desperation.  “I don’t like what this place does to me.”

   Worry creasing his weathered brow, John pressed a palm between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.  With a deep breath he said, “Talk to me, love.  What’s really on your mind?”

   Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head and burrowing into John in the same motion.  

   “I don’t want to even speak about it.  I’ve been terrible and I just want to go back to the me I am at home.”

   Sherlock breathed deeply and waited for John to insist on dredging up the root of the problem.  Though Sherlock adored John for his attention, at that moment he wanted nothing more than to bury it deep and hardwipe the entire week.  Minus the sex, of course.

   As luck would have it, John didn’t feel like discussing their problems either.  Instead he hummed thoughtfully and said, “Okay.  As soon as Mycroft can come back to finish handling this, you and I will bugger off to Baker Street and never leave again.  I can go back to my own tea and you can go back to being an annoying arse.”

   Sherlock glared up at John, but pure adoration beamed from John’s every pore.  So instead of arguing, Sherlock kissed him.

  
  



	13. L is for Loyalty; L is for Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another call. A shift.

   Nestled deep and debauched in their borrowed bed, John kissed Sherlock sweetly, only pulling away when they heard Mary return on the motorbike.  John made a small noise in the back of his throat and Sherlock squeezed him tighter before releasing him.  John sat up on the bed and rocked forward until his feet were firmly planted on the floor.  

   Over his shoulder, John reluctantly said, “That’ll be Mary.  You stay here.  I’ll just go help her get the groceries inside and I’ll be right back.”

   Strong, long fingers reached up and wrapped around John’s bicep, tugging him back towards the warmth of the mattress.  He resisted only slightly until hot lips brushed against his shoulder.  John relaxed into the contact.

   Then an irresistible voice said, “No, let me.”

   “Sherlock,” John sighed wearily.

   “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Sherlock added quickly.  “Just… consider it a small offer of assistance as a token of thanks for her help this week.”

   Sherlock moved away and quickly pulled on his pants and trousers, standing to hitch the fabric over his hips.  John stared at him warily while he buttoned his shirt but didn’t say anything.

   When he was acceptably dressed, Sherlock leaned back over the bed with a smile for one more quick kiss.

   “I’ll be back before you know it,” he breathed.

   “That’s fine,” John mumbled with a small wave.

   John didn’t want to acknowledge it, but ever since the night Sherlock apologised to Mary, Sherlock had been carefully manipulating situations to ensure that he and Mary were never left unattended.

   Mary probably hadn’t even noticed, John assumed.  She had been delighted by Sherlock’s attentions and company.  John, however, felt sickened by the charade.  He detested not having Sherlock’s complete trust and didn’t have the heart to break the glass on their recent respite from the fighting.

   Their relationship had been the one solid thing in John’s life.  Unshakable.  Unquestionable.  But now?  There had been a false alarm earthquake, and Sherlock was clearly still suffering from the aftershocks.  

   After several slow minutes, John rubbed a hand over his brow and tried to quell the panic rising in him for the umpteenth time since the bloody phone call from Mycroft that had began this whole tirade.

   As if summoned, Sherlock’s mobile buzzed loudly on the nightstand.  John grumbled and picked up the device, expecting (hoping) for a text from Lestrade about an urgent case that absolutely required them to return to London on the double.  Then he remembered Sherlock saying something about not getting a signal out here.  But the phone continued to buzz in long bursts: a call.  The screen read, “Incoming: BLOCKED NUMBER.”

   “Mycroft?” John answered.

   “Is Sherlock with you?  Or is he with her?”

   John’s breath hitched at the venomous way Mycroft had obviously referred to Mary.  His response was quiet, sounding unsure in the largeness of the house.  “He’s not with me right now.”

   “Be careful, John.  Don’t let Sherlock get too close or dig too deep.  I’ll be back there in three days to take over.  Sooner, if I can manage it.”

   The speaker clicked as Mycroft rang off but John still tried to reach him.  “What do you mean?”  Met with the silence he knew he would be, but still not accepting it, John groaned in frustration and dropped the mobile.  It bounced off the edge of the mattress and clattered to the floor.  

   John swore loudly before gathering himself and sweeping a hand over the floor to feel for the mobile and retrieve it.  Just as he moved to set the phone down on the table and wipe the dust off his hand something else caught his attention.  Caught between two fingers was a medium-length blonde hair.  

   Ice coursed through John’s veins.  Just what had Mycroft meant by warning him?  Why had he waited until now?  John’s head was full of questions but the answers were far from within his grasp.  

   “Sherlock?” he called, voice hoarse as he got out of the bed and wrapped a sheet around himself.  Opening their door, he looked towards the stairs but heard a soft sound from the other end of the hallway.  

   “Sherlock?”

   “Just a minute, John.  I’m in my old room.”

   John breathed slowly but walked quickly.  The door to Sherlock’s childhood domain was cracked but the only light shining through was from the moon.

   A titanic glacier lodged itself in John’s gut and he just knew.

 

 


	14. M is for Morality; M is for Mendaciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in posting! I am currently at 221Bcon!

   John didn’t want to open the door, didn’t want to confirm his fears.  Yet as Mycroft’s words echoed loudly, one hand was already moving.  The other was a bloodless fist clenched in the sheet covering him.  

    From the darkness of the room, Sherlock mumbled something John was unable to filter through the rush of blood in his ears.  The door opened and John lifted his eyes slowly. 

   Moonlight was draped over the room like a funeral shroud and John’s breath solidified in his chest.  He saw Sherlock, luminescence glinting in his hair, at one of the bookshelves.  Alone.

   Disbelieving his own eyes, John scanned over the entire room as he stepped inside.  He had been convinced Sherlock was not solitary.

   Sherlock spoke without taking his gaze off the items on the shelf.  “Mycroft called.  I heard the buzzing as I passed our door.”

   John’s tongue grazed his top lip as he tried to think of an answer to the non-question.  He stalled further when he felt he couldn’t trust his own voice.

   His neglect at providing a response got Sherlock’s attention.  He gazed at him expectantly but the sight of John bathed in moonlight in nothing but a pale sheet stopped his breath.  Sherlock instantly hoped John had come to take him to bed again.  But John’s face was wrong.  He looked pained and his chest was puffed defensively, his breathing shallow and rapid.

   “Something wrong, John?”

   “Why didn’t you come answer the phone if you knew it was ringing?”

   Sherlock took a step forward but faltered, thrown by John’s attack.  Confused, he shook his head.  “I knew you would get it and I wanted to look for something first.”

   Relentless, John took a step towards him.  

   “Where is she?”

   “Mary went to bed.”

   John’s eyes fell to the floor and he inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring.  The hand not gripping the sheet fidgeted at his side.

   Concern made Sherlock forget whatever it was he had been searching for.  He stepped up to John carefully.  Not truly closing the gap between them.  Sherlock spoke in soft tones, lowering his chin submissively.

   “John.  I don’t understand.  What exactly is causing this?” he asked, reaching for John’s hand as it clenched and unclenched sporadically.

   When Sherlock touched his skin, effectively staying the nervous movement, John’s dark eyes closed and he sighed, shoulders going limp.  As his gaze met Sherlock’s again, he was more or less calmed.

   “It’s nothing.  Just… Mycroft getting under my skin again.”  
   “What did he say?” Sherlock snapped.

   “Nothing.  It’s nothing.  Just come to bed.”

   John closed the distance between them, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder.  He breathed in his own scent still lingering on Sherlock’s skin and pulled himself closer.  

   Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock wrapped one arm around John’s torso loosely enough to allow him to easily escape from the embrace.  He whispered a gentle kiss to the top of John’s head just before he shifted, tilting his face upwards.  

   Grateful for a readable reaction from John, Sherlock acted quickly, cupping John’s face and trailing kisses from his cool cheek to his warm mouth.  

   The sheet fell from John's grip but caught between their pressed bodies.  Sherlock loomed over John, clutching the loose fabric to John's waist with his free hand.  John moaned in response, pressing his hips forward for a mere moment before stumbling backwards. Sherlock caught him as his feet tangled in the bedding.

   "Not in here, Sherlock."

   "Why?" Sherlock breathed, already moving to kiss John again.

   John shifted, so Sherlock anointed the corner of his mouth while he began to mumble, "The bed is too small. Besides this was your childhood room. That feels... weird."

   Sherlock looked deeply into John's eyes, who shrugged and looked away.

   "Then take that sheet off before you fall and let's get back to bed.  Sheets are not proper attire, anyways," Sherlock barked with a grin.

   John gaped at him, his face the mock of a true offense taken.  "Says the man who wore one to Buckingham Palace."

   "Only because you made me put something on."

   "Sherlock, we were video-chatting."

   "So?"

   John grumbled.  "So, the police were there too."

   Sherlock rolled his eyes and released John.  He started off down the hallway, practically shouting to the empty house, "Who knew a medical doctor could be so modest when it comes to the human anatomy."

   "I'm not," John explained as he struggled to untangle himself so he could follow Sherlock.  

   "I'm just..." John huffed as he gave the last strong tug, which nearly uprooted him from the floor.  "I'm just not that keen on sharing your body with all of Scotland Yard."

   With that, Sherlock rushed back into the room and finished what the sheet had started, sending them both crashing to the floor.  With skilled precision, Sherlock ripped his shirt open, scattering buttons to the far corners of the room.  

   John let out a guttural growl and started undoing Sherlock's trousers with shaking hands.  He needed to see how Sherlock wanted him.  He needed to feel Sherlock move in him.  He needed the sensation to banish his momentary insanity.  Just the thought of Sherlock with Mary was just that: insane.

   John knew that Sherlock only ever wanted him, it was just that sometimes, he had to be reminded.  Roughly.

   John felt equal parts weak and strong with desire.  His belly was hot but his limbs lacked strength.  One of Sherlock's hands joined his own, fumbling as they were.  The other hand held him over John as his mouth moved hotly down John's throat.

   Sherlock's teeth briefly clamped down on John's clavicle and the man saw stars.  

   Just as quickly as he had tackled him, Sherlock moved away, dissatisfied with the speed at which they were both trying to undress him. From the floor, John writhed with need, reaching out to Sherlock with more than just his arms.  Sherlock kicked his pants and trousers off together, exhibiting a mirror of lasciviousness.  

   With a deftness and grace that perhaps only he could manage, Sherlock spread the sheet out from beneath John as best as he could.

   When he was satisfied with the arrangements.  Sherlock swooped down to taste John.  Buckling with instant gratification, John snaked his fingers into Sherlock’s hair.  He wanted more, more, all that Sherlock had to offer, and Sherlock was keen on the same idea.  As his mouth warmed John’s hot flesh further, Sherlock’s long fingers probed across the floor for what he had just retrieved from their room and promptly dropped upon knocking John over.  The counterparts to these searching fingers were probing against John’s tight ring of flesh, just the barest tease of a request for admittance.

   John closed his eyes to better focus on the sensation, biting his bottom lip as he thrust his chin towards the ceiling.  His heels planted themselves firmly as Sherlock swallowed him almost whole before slowly releasing him with a wet pop.

   Finally, Sherlock was grasping the small plastic container he had been blindly groping for: one of the small bottles of lube they always packed with them.  The muscles in Sherlock’s back and thighs began to burn from his awkward position of kneeling, bent over John’s pelvis.  He shifted, using the movement to quickly dampen his fingers and John with lubricant before returning to his work.

   John shivered as the cold liquid touched his burning skin, but was fast rewarded by Sherlock pressing a finger into him a few times before adding a second.  Sherlock made time working John both inside and out until John couldn’t let the tension build any further.  

   “Sherlock,” he panted.

   Sherlock hummed around his girth, causing John to shift his hips seeking the pleasure from the vibrations.  Licking his lips, John opened his eyes to better focus.  

   “Sherlock,” he repeated with conviction.  “Sherlock, although that feels absolutely...yes...I need you.  Right.  Now.”

   As he looked up at John through miles of soft lashes, Sherlock’s mouth pulled away in slow torture.  He slid forward, placing a wet kiss between John’s stomach and pelvis as he slicked himself.  He knew that John’s body was prepared, but liked taking his time.  He wanted to enjoy every moment of disassembling the bossy smaller man piece by piece.

   “Whatever could you mean, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock teased with false innocence.  “I’m already here.”

   John’s head snapped off of the floor and he glared with just the corner of his mouth turned up.  

   “Mr. Holmes, if you fail to penetrate me in the next ten seconds I am going to bite you.”  For emphasis, John slid his hips further down the sheet and raised his knees.

   “Promise?” Sherlock grinned malevolently.  Before John could shout in earnest, Sherlock slid between John’s thighs and pressed his body down.  

   John inhaled softly as Sherlock entered him, pressing the base of his skull back on the floor as Sherlock’s weight settled fully over him.  

   Though his first movement was somewhat slow, the rest made up for it as he soon began thrusting in earnest.  John wrapped his legs around Sherlock to better pull him along as they moved incrementally across the floor.  

   The friction between the carpet and his skin was making Sherlock’s knees burn, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the act of burying himself inside his lover repeatedly.  John accepted him greedily, letting out a soft huff of air with each crash of their bodies, timed perfectly with the slap of Sherlock’s thighs against him.  

   An object in motion will remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force.  This was true for both Sherlock and John.  They would have been happy to continue their motions for an indefinite period of time, but friction and fatigue had other plans for them.  John was the first to fully succumb to their passions.  He came, panting roughly and clutching desperately to Sherlock’s back as though to let go meant to fall through the very floor.

   The sticky warmth that pooled between them spurred Sherlock on.  He bucked his hips wildly, rolling through spasms of ecstasy.  When he pulled out of John, he felt raw, but not as raw as his knees.  Sherlock flexed his toes after laying down next to John, doing a quick mental assessment of his areas of pain and pleasure.  

   John swallowed beside him, still trying to catch his breath.  They remained like that for a few minutes, neither one having anything to voice that wouldn’t spoil the mood of euphoria.  So they were each content to bask in silence.  

   Then John shivered, pulling the edge of the sheet over himself.  Sherlock took the cloth from him and added to the momentum, effectively tipping John onto his side and part way on to Sherlock.  John shifted until he was comfortable, but kept the position.  

   “Tomorrow,” Sherlock began, banishing the silence, “We should go out.”

   John moved, propping his chin on Sherlock’s chest as he stared at him from under furrowed brows.

   “You almost never want to go out at home.  Well, not unless there is a murder or some other crime to investigate.”

   “We’re not at home,” Sherlock insisted, thinking himself clever.

   John was exhausted and didn’t want to argue, so he just said, “Fine, Sherlock.”  With a heavy sigh, John closed his eyes and laid his head back down.  

   Like a twig snap, Sherlock was sitting up, throwing John off almost carelessly.  

   “Hey!” he protested, but Sherlock was already speaking.

   “Full disclosure: Lestrade did text me about a cold case.  It’s a long shot, but might be worth looking into.  If nothing else, it could give us a little break from whatever it is we’re meant to be doing.”

   Sherlock smirked, looking far too pleased with himself and John roared, “I knew it!”  He got up, wincing slightly at the movement and yanked the sheet off the floor to wrap it haphazardly around himself.  

   “I knew you had to also be working on a case.  Otherwise you would’ve gone mental days ago from being cooped up and away from the city still.”

   To his credit, Sherlock looked truly offended.

   John turned on his heel and made for the shower.  Before he had the water temperature adjusted to his liking, Sherlock joined him, still nude.  

   “That’s not completely true,” Sherlock whined.  “You yourself offer a tremendous distraction.”

   The stone-cold look thrown at him prevented Sherlock from digging himself any deeper.

   John just stepped into the shower, and after a moment’s hesitation, reached out a hand to invite Sherlock to join him.  Sherlock smiled sheepishly and accepted, crowding close to John and the source of the water.  He kissed John’s damp shoulder and ran both hands up John’s other arm.

   Sherlock could feel John’s tenseness in the way his doctor didn’t melt into his embrace, so he committed himself to trying harder.

   Leaning over, Sherlock kissed John where his hairline neared the top of one ear.  Taking his time, Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s temple, tugging John closer to his body incrementally the whole time.

   Finally, the white flag flew and John collapsed against him, and Sherlock hummed, rocking them a little.  

   “Just a few more days, Sherlock.  Mycroft said he would be back.  Then we can pretend this whole thing was just a vivid, strange, somewhat sexual dream, okay?”

   Sherlock kissed John’s forehead in acquiescence and stopped rocking to start cleaning them off.

  

 


	15. N is for Nexus; N is for Nocent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes matters into his own hands. Sherlock is otherwise occupied.

   The next morning, John was slightly surprised at waking well and truly alone.  Not even a residual modicum of Sherlock’s body heat had stayed to accompany him as he rose, body stiff.  John coughed softly to clear his throat and stood, feeling the pull of his body to where Sherlock’s was likely to be found.  

   Sure enough, he was in his father’s cluttered study sitting at the desk.  John smiled a little watching Sherlock lost in the mountain of notes and documents, sifting quickly with mild agitation.  The robe Sherlock had thrown over himself was starting to slip loose, so John padded proudly across the room to fix it.  Standing behind Sherlock he leaned over, adjusting the thin fabric as he pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s taut neck.  

   Then John slid his palms down Sherlock’s chest until his chin rested on the same shoulder he just covered.  In a throaty hum he asked, “Found anything interesting?”

   “Mmm… nnm,” was the only, and frankly confusing, response he got.  

   “Toast?” John asked in a chipper voice, still neglecting to notice that something was amiss.  When he got no response, John peeled away, stepping around to try and meet Sherlock’s gaze.  Resolutely, he was ignored.  

   “Wasn’t there something about a case, Sherlock?  You were telling me last night?”

   Sherlock grunted vaguely at this, but showed no signs that he was actually listening.  

   “You know, I think I really fancy penguins.  Like, really fancy them.  I might get one for the flat and let it wear Mycroft’s old tuxedos.”

   Sherlock replied to this comment by shuffling one paper away and continuing on to the next.  

   John rocked on his heels, already bored of getting the silent treatment.  They had gone one step forward last night, but it seemed the dawn had taken them ten steps back again.

   Rather than start a row so early in the morning, John just stomped away slowly, huffing “wanker” under his breath as he left the room.  

   John took his time with breakfast and the washing up.  Then he took his time brushing his teeth.  When he peaked around the doorframe into the study almost thirty full minutes after he had left, he immediately could see that Sherlock hadn’t moved.  Not a centimeter.

   He walked in slowly, full from his breakfast and feeling lethargic.  After setting a plate of toast with jam on the side of the desk less covered in debris, John reached out a hand to brush a curl from Sherlock’s forehead.  As was custom when he was that deeply concentrating, the touch didn’t even garner acknowledgement on Sherlock’s face.  Instead, he carried on as usual, leaving John to sigh, pat his hunched back, and walk away.  

   At first, John milled about the room, trying to tidy.  Then he just sat and watched Sherlock work.  He could never tire of watching Sherlock, but the creeping feeling of uselessness settled into his bones and he had to get up again.  Before he left the room, he called out once more, softly, “Sherlock?”  There was no response.  As he knew there would not be.  

   John tried his mobile, but couldn’t find a signal.  He clucked under his breath and stormed off, intent on finding a telephone.  When he found one in the pantry, of all places, he rang the one person who could possibly give him something to do: DI Lestrade.  

   “John!” Lestrade bellowed.  “Is everything alright?”

   “Yeah, Greg.  Man, it feels good to hear another familiar voice.”  John took a deep breath before asking the details of the case.

   “Not much to go on, unfortunately.  Possible missing persons.  Can you guys just have a look-round and let me know if I need to send someone local out?”

   John looked in the direction of the study before shifting his gaze to closely examine the flooring just beneath him.  “Of course.  I’ll look into it.  Sherlock would, but he’s… busy.”

   “Right,” Lestrade breathed consolingly.  Much louder, he asked, “When can I expect the both of you back in London?  I need to warn the guys.”  He laughed, but it was forced.

   John’s jaw clenched before he answered.  “Hopefully within the next few days.  I’m getting worried about him, Greg, if I’m being honest.”  
   “Understood.  I’ll try to find something juicy for him when he gets back.”

   “Cheers, mate.”  John smiled, knowing he could count on his friend to understand.  “I’ll go scope out this farmhouse and ring you later, yeah?”

   “Sounds like a plan.  Thanks, John.”

   John rang off and slumped back against the nearest wall.  For a moment, he contemplated shouting up to Sherlock that he was stepping out for a while, but he knew the message would fall on deaf ears.  So instead he grabbed his jacket and went for the long walk to the house in question.

 

   From her sitting room window, Mary watched John stomp down the porch steps and down the long gravel drive.  He wasn’t dressed for a run, and looked determined, like he was traveling a long distance.  As soon as he was out of sight, she set down the novel she had been half-reading and strolled casually to the main house.  

   She called Sherlock’s name when she entered through the kitchen, but got no response.  Instead of trying again, she took her time making tea.  When it was ready, she carried it reverently to the study, humming through a grin.    

   Sherlock sat completely still, except for his eyes, which flicked back and forth rapidly.  Mary knocked on the doorframe to be polite but Sherlock didn’t even blink.  She made her way into the room to Sherlock’s side.  Pushing the untouched plate of toast aside, she carefully set down the mug brimming with hot tea and moved to drape an arm across the back of Sherlock’s chair, leaning in close to see what he was reading.  

   “Still going over the ledgers?” she asked teasingly.  She stood straight as a rod but did not move away.  Instead, she reached over to brush a curl of ebony hair away from Sherlock’s forehead.  

   “John.”

   “Try again.”

   With that, Sherlock shifted in his seat, pulling away from her touch.  

   “Where’s John?”

   Mary moved around to the front of the desk, leaning over a little with her weight braced on her palms.  

   “John’s gone.  He stepped out a while ago.  Looked like he was in for a long walk.”

   Sherlock blinked rapidly, as if suddenly remembering.  “Yes, obviously.  He’ll be back in a few hours.”

   With a grin like a shark, Mary asked, “And what shall we do in the meantime?”

   Sherlock tried to look affronted, but the shock was too much.  

   At the look on his face, Mary’s head fell forward and she laughed in earnest.  “I’m teasing, Sherlock.  What can I do to help?”

   Sherlock squinted at her as her eyes met his again.  He always did have trouble reading her more than most people.  This was always to his frustrating disappointment.  Motivation was easy enough to suss out, being able to read body language and knowing a bit about a person.  But trying to pin down Mary had always been like trying to hold on to a struggling eel.  Sherlock mainly attributed this to the fact that she had never been at all interesting to him.  Before.  

   Sherlock decided to stop wasting his time with conjecture.  

   “What is it you want, exactly?”

   Without missing a beat, Mary replied easily.  “I just want to help you.”

   Sherlock stared at her, desperately searching for some hint.  All he could read were her calm exterior and casual posture.  It was infuriating.  

   Taking a deep breath, Mary tugged a lock of hair behind her ear and said, “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…”


	16. O is for One and Only; O is for Overwhelming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get really messy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end! Well, we are at least much closer to the finish than we are to the start.  
> This is only going to get worse. I am trash. Please forgive me.

   Sherlock held his breath where he sat at his father’s desk.  From Mary’s tone, she had something important to say.  Just as his vision began to swim, Sherlock sucked in a lungful of air.  Mary only let out a shaky laugh and moved so that her back was to him.  

   “Sherlock, I need to say something to you,” she started, shifting her weight nervously.  “I thought I could tell you now that we are alone, but I don’t think I’m quite ready yet.”

   Disliking how he was suddenly intrigued, Sherlock sat forward in his chair, impatience letting him ignore the searing heat from the mug of tea pressed against his arm.  A hundred questions rattled through his head, but the one he settled on was, “Why can’t I find any documents on your mother?”

  
  


   A few miles down the road, John Watson cursed under his breath.  He had been walking for a little more than an hour, but felt like he hadn’t made any progress.  Just as he was about to turn around to get Sherlock and the motorbike, a house, the house, came into view.  It looked old and only minimally looked after, but occupied.  Bracing himself, John made his way to investigate.  

  
  


   In the study, Mary wrung her hands in front of her and spun to face Sherlock again.  Her bottom lip was trembling, only slightly, only enough to distract Sherlock for a moment.  Then her dark lashes were shining, wet, rapidly kissing her skin.  She drew a hand to her mouth quickly, gnawing the knuckle.  Sherlock leapt out of his chair, leaning over the desk, but Mary was too quick.

   Gasping, she fled the room.

   Sherlock stood for a minute, confused.  He tried to trace the events from A to C.  A: ask.  Sherlock had asked a personal question.  C: cry.  Mary had begun to cry.  What had transpired B: between?

   Realising that he was not able to draw any conclusive evidence just standing in the empty room, he moved to trace her steps.  

   Where would she go?  

   Home, obviously.    
   So Sherlock made his way there with purpose.  

   

 

   John reached the door on an exhale and raised his hand to knock.  Before his fist could connect with wood, however, there came an excited chirping from his pocket as text alert after text alert finally made themselves heard.  Distracted from the door, John stepped back and clumsily removed his mobile from his pocket, nearly dropping it on the gravel walkway twice.  With a curse under his breath, he began to scroll through the messages.  The most recent one wrought pallidity to his usually tan face.

   “Fuck!” he spat, turning on his heel and running back down the drive, dialing his phone violently.  Inwardly, he prayed the signal would hold.

   

 

   Sherlock stood outside the door that led directly into Mary’s kitchen.  Rapidly, he oscillated on the small steps, hands pressed into his hips firmly.  Mary had run away from him, had wanted to be alone.  Clearly, what he said had upset her.  This kind of thing had never bothered Sherlock before.  Why should this time be any different?  Mary meant nothing to him.  

   Then, from inside, there came a small choking sound.  

   Sherlock moved without another thought, throwing the door open and calling her name.  When she sobbed in response, Sherlock ran through the kitchen and down the hall towards Mary’s room.  It was the same room she had occupied since birth, but it was unrecognisable to Sherlock.  The child-like items had all been discarded, and in their wake were the manifestations of a simplistic woman.  Nothing gaudy or showy, just a room filled with comfort and warmth.  

   Mary lay on the bed, her face shoved into the mattress.  Her skirt shifted up where one knee had moved to hold her in place on the mattress.  The other foot was planted firmly on the carpet.   Trepidatiously, Sherlock moved towards the bed, hand outstretched.  

   Careful not to touch skin, he tugged the edge of her skirt down, covering her thigh again.  She shifted at the sensation, snuffling loudly and running the back of her hand over her mouth as she sat up to face him.  As she shifted over towards the head of the bed, Sherlock sat stiffly at the foot, his eyes never leaving her face.

   “This is embarrassing,” Mary huffed with a choked laugh.  

   “A bit,” Sherlock conceded, and Mary laughed in earnest.  

   She sighed heavily after she caught her breath and drove her gaze upwards to the ceiling.  

   “After this many years, you would think…”

   Sherlock waited impatiently, but she never finished the thought.  

   “Yes, about that,” he cut in finally.  “What just happened?”

   “You don’t really care,” Mary said, deadpan.

   Sherlock replied in a quiet voice, “I could.”

   With that little admission, Mary’s neck threatened to snap from the forward momentum as her wide eyes met Sherlock’s.  Her mouth hung open in shock.  Fumbling, she shut her jaw and slid across the duvet, closer to Sherlock.  Her small hand, the same size as John’s, slid over his.  

   “Really?”

   She sounded incredulous, which wanted to sound like derision to Sherlock, but her face was too open, too innocent.  

   Before Sherlock had time to anticipate, Mary’s warm mouth was pressed firmly against his.

   He went still and she pulled away, covering her mouth and averting her gaze.  In a graceless movement, she shoved her body away from his, pulling her knees to her chest.  

   Once, twice, she opened her mouth but no sound came out.  

   Sherlock did the same, turning away.  His body was tense and ready to spring off the bed.  

   “Sherlock, I am so sorry,” Mary trembled.  

   Before Sherlock could reply the sound of tyre-strewn gravel distracted them both.  

  
  


   By the time John arrived back at the Holmes abode, there was already a black car in the driveway.  Sherlock and Mary were standing together, but apart, close to the driver, low in conversation.  Mary looked flushed but John didn’t allow himself the time to notice.  

   The driver turned into the sound of John coming up the drive.  

   Before he was able to speak, John doubled over and fought to catch his breath.  

   Sherlock jogged over and placed his palm along the smaller man’s back, rubbing in light, circular motions.  He knew that kind of contact would sooth without smothering.

   “Are you alright, John?” he asked, sounding pained.

   John took one last deep gasp of air before replying.  

   “Yeah, just needed to catch my breath.”  Quickly he stood, and for a moment, blackness swam at the edges of his vision.  Pushing through the dizziness, he said, “Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson-”

   “Yes, I know,” Sherlock interrupted.  “Lestrade called Mycroft when he couldn’t reach us hours ago.  Mycroft sent the car for you.”

   Sherlock’s palm pressed harder into John’s back, urging him forward.  Firmly, John’s heels planted themselves and resisted all forward momentum as Sherlock’s words registered.  

   “Hold on, Sherlock.  You mean us.  Mycroft sent the car for us.”

   “No, John, I did not misspeak.  You are rushing home to check on our landlady, because that is what you do, and I am going to stay here and work on a case because that is what I do.”

   John’s face threatened to turn into a permanent scowl, his harsh frown and furrowed brow seemingly set in stone.  He turned into Sherlock but did not seek his comfort.  

   “Sherlock, you can’t be serious.”  

   It sounded like a warning.  To anyone else it would have been a threat.  

   John pressed forward, his forefinger jabbing towards Sherlock’s sternum, as if it were practicing to stab through.  “Sherlock, she needs us.  This could be serious.  You’re coming with me and afterwards we can both come back for as long as necessary.”

   There was a hurricane in John’s eyes, but Sherlock was impervious to its velocity.  His eyes turned to steel, shields up.  He wasn’t going to give in and John knew it without him having to say anything.  

   “Fine.”  John breathed heavily and started to stomp away.  The driver opened the rear door for him, but before he shoved in, he spun on his heel, fists clenched at his sides.  

   In a low growl, he murmured just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, “Fine, Sherlock.  I am going to go.  But when I get back we are going to have a serious talk.  And you can try to explain what is so fucking important that you can’t be away for a few hours.”

   Sherlock stood to his full height and lifted his chin obstinately.  

   John nodded curtly and ducked into the vehicle.  When the car rushed down the drive, he didn’t look back.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next installment will be a little bit late. There has been a lot going on in my life and I don't have something ready to share yet. I thank you for your patience and will hopefully be updating by May 9th. Thank you guys for reading and for all your support!
> 
> EDIT: I am having some health issues- so I will try to update as soon as I can, but it might not be by May 9th. I'm really sorry guys. I have Trigeminal Neuralgia, which means I am in a lot of pain, which makes it really hard to concentrate. I have pain medication, which makes me dizzy and drowsy. Which, I'm sure you can imagine, also makes it hard to write. Hopefully I will be back to breaking all your hearts very soon.   
> Thank you for your understanding and please accept my apologies.


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